


Call My Name

by KouriArashi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Conspiracy, Eichen | Echo House, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Feral Peter Hale, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mating Bond, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Multi, Mystery, POV Stiles, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Stilinski Family Feels, and everything that was wrong with Eichen House, at least at first, because seriously what was that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 81,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4070788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After moving to Beacon Hills, Stiles starts having recurring dreams of a man in some kind of prison, who needs his help. Things get so bad that he ends up in Eichen House, where he finds out that the man is real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cocoslash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoslash/gifts).



> Hello all, this is a fic based loosely on [this amazing gifset](http://cocoslash.tumblr.com/post/97641458459/steter-au-stiles-keeps-seeing-painful-flashbacks)! Though as usual with most of my fics it grew into something enormous and barely manageable. =D
> 
> It will be somewhat dark and very triggery for issues surrounding mental illness and the treatment thereof, and basically everything they did wrong in the episode Echo House, including forced restraint and patients (Stiles) being drugged against their will. Also specifically triggering for the fact that people take advantage of Stiles’ history of mental illness to make him believe he’s having delusions/hallucinations when in fact he’s seeing things that they don’t want him to have seen. And, um, also triggery for bullying due to mental health issues and mentions of self-harm and suicide attempts. And a mention of a school shooting.
> 
> Yes, uh. Please heed the triggers. *blow kisses* All the psychological info should be relatively accurate (I actually have a bachelor’s in psychology, isn’t that terrifying?) but feel free to let me know if I mess anything up.
> 
> ETA: I use the name Tom for Papa Stilinski because .... let's be real, they've never told us what it is, and every John I've ever known was a jerk.

 

“Beacon Hills will be a new start for us,” is what Tom Stilinski says as he and Stiles roll out of Missoula, Montana, the biggest city ever built in the middle of nowhere. Stiles just kind of nods and stares out the window as they drive, because he doesn’t see how moving _back_ to a city that they had lived in when he was a kid would be a new anything.

But to be honest, he doesn’t care. They’re uprooting their lives, again, and they could have moved anywhere in the northern hemisphere and nothing would have changed. Unless his father finally just decides to become a hermit somewhere in the Yukon, which Stiles would have preferred but knew his father would never go for.

“Look, don’t feel bad,” Tom says, reaching over to squeeze his son’s shoulder. “This isn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says.

They had left Beacon Hills when he was seven, when his mother had first received her diagnosis of frontotemporal dementia. They had moved clear across the country, to Boston, where they were doing a clinical trial of a new medication. He supposed that it had bought her some time, although of course there was no way to know what would have happened without it. All he knew was that her decline had been prolonged and horrible, to the point where he wished she had died a year before she actually had. It was a terrible thing to wish, he thought, but he couldn’t help it.

After Claudia had died, they had no reason to stay in Boston, and Tom didn’t particularly like the East Coast, so they moved again, back west, settling down in Oregon. Tom got a job as a deputy, and nine-year-old Stiles enrolled in elementary school.

It would have been nice to say that everything was okay for a while, but there was no ‘okay’ in the wake of Claudia’s death. Not for either of them. Tom soldiered on as best he could, drank more than he should have, and worked hard. Stiles kept to himself because every playdate with someone from his class inevitably led to questions about his mother.

The loss never went away, but they adapted. It became their new normal.

When Stiles was ten, a man came to his school with a gun and opened fire in the cafeteria. Four children and two adults were killed, while Stiles huddled under a table by himself, with no friends to cluster with, nobody to clutch and cry on. The shooter was brought down by none other than his father, Deputy Stilinski, who earned himself a shoulder wound for his trouble.

“PTSD is different in children than adults,” the counselor had told Tom while Stiles sat in the room with his knees pulled to his chest, staring out the window. He had nightmares every night, more than once a night. He barely talked anymore but never stopped moving. He refused to go back to school and cried if his father tried to make him. He lost interest in virtually anything outside his bedroom.

“First and foremost, he needs to feel safe,” the counselor had said. “He needs your support and your understanding.”

They moved again. Stiles wouldn’t go to school, and Tom couldn’t be a police officer. The department helped him find a desk job in an office that coordinated benefits for retired police, and that brought them to a Denver suburb. Stiles came to work with him every day for a few months but eventually managed to go back to school.

But the nightmares didn’t stop. The tense anxiety never left. He had panic attacks two or three times a week that only his father could soothe.

The dreams were about his mother a lot of the time, or about what had happened in Oregon, but then he started to have different dreams. He dreamed about a horrible fire that raged out of control and left him in agonizing pain. He dreamed about demons, about monsters, about dead bodies.

“He’s generalizing,” the psychologist said. “It’s hard for him to understand what happened, so he invents monsters to take the place of the real life villains.”

Tom clearly thought that was bullshit, because Stiles had had no problem dreaming about the real life villains in full color before. And of course there was always, always the specter of his mother’s illness looming over their heads. He would be one of the youngest people to be diagnosed in its history, but it was still possible. His MRI was normal, which was reassuring. Insurance refused to cover genetic testing.

But he didn’t only see the monsters when he was asleep. He started to see them when he was awake, too. An unfamiliar teacher looked like a rotting corpse. Their neighbor had a demon sitting on the hood of his car. The man in front of them at the grocery store turned to leer at him with a forked tongue.

“Diagnosing psychosis in children can be quite difficult,” the psychiatrist said. “But schizophrenia is more likely to cause visual hallucinations in teenagers than in adults. He does have a lot of the other symptoms – irritability, depressed mood, trouble sleeping – ”

“He’s sitting right here,” Stiles snapped.

They put him on medication. The first medication had terrible side effects, making him shaky and dizzy, giving him horrible headaches and tremors. They took him off of it and he begged his father not to put him on anything else.

“We just want you to be okay, Stiles,” Tom had said. “Try one more. Okay? Just one more. For me.”

Stiles agreed. The second medication didn’t hurt him, but it didn’t make the hallucinations or the nightmares stop. When Stiles told them that, they increased his dose, and he was suddenly tired all the time and never wanted to do anything. They added something else. It was years of an endless parade of different doctors, different diagnoses, different medications, two hospital stays, and pretending that he could handle it. In the end, he couldn’t. He started flushing his medication down the toilet and stopped telling his doctors about the things he saw.

They moved to Missoula when he was fourteen, because his father had gotten a better job, and by that point Stiles literally couldn’t have cared less. Maybe in Missoula the doctors would be smarter. Or maybe they wouldn’t be.

The new job had better insurance, and Stiles got the genetic testing for frontotemporal dementia. It was negative. He didn’t care much about that, either. He had figured out a long time ago that whatever was wrong with him, it had nothing to do with his mother’s illness. But his father was relieved, and that made him happy. He was working in the field again, and Stiles was handling it, and they were getting to some new normal where Stiles only had panic attacks once or twice a month and nightmares once or twice a week. He made a couple friends and tried out for lacrosse. His father started dating a woman he met through a work colleague.

Not long after that, he started having recurring nightmares about a blond woman with a wicked smile. He couldn’t even say why they were nightmares, since nothing terrible happened in them. But he knew that she was a monster, even with her pretty face. Abruptly, the dreams about her stopped, and somehow that was even more frightening than having them.

Two months before his seventeenth birthday, he had gotten a detention for being late to class and had to serve it in the library, where he dozed off. He had a new dream, about being locked away in a tiny room, and a man with a third eye who showed him horrible things, and he woke up screaming.

The panic attack was so severe that he wound up being taken to the emergency room even though his father was on the way. He spent a week in the psych ward there, and they realized he hadn’t been taking his medication for months. They put him on IVs and pumped him full of it until he was nauseous and dizzy and cried all the time.

Things stabilized and he was discharged on something reasonable that his father made him promise to take. But he couldn’t undo what had been done at school. Half a dozen kids had witnessed his meltdown, and the story was all over the school. His classmates were cruel in the way that only teenagers could be. Taunts and giggles followed him everywhere. People sent him ‘screamer’ videos or dressed in black robes and jumped out at him.

It got so bad that one night he found himself sitting in the bathtub, playing with a razor blade, and the idea of killing himself suddenly seemed wonderfully appealing. Because he was never going to get better. There was never going to be anything else. Just an endless parade of doctors and medications and cruelty. He didn’t want any part of it.

But then he thought about his father, about all the times after Claudia had died that Tom had said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you” or “no matter what happens, we’ll always be together” or “you’re always my number one priority”. He went downstairs bleeding and crying and apologizing, and his father went white underneath his tan and took him to the hospital.

Another week long mandatory stay, this time with a huge number of cards and flowers from teenagers who said they hadn’t really _meant_ to drive a classmate to suicide. And Tom started making preparations to move again. An old friend in Beacon Hills said they were looking for a new deputy after they had lost one the previous year to some sort of animal attack. Their old house was on the market. It seemed like kismet.

By the time Stiles got out of the hospital, his father had signed on for the new job, signed off on the house, and packed most of their belongings.

“Beacon Hills will be a new start for us,” his father says, and Stiles nods and looks out the window and clutches at his scarred arms. “Look, don’t feel bad. This isn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Stiles says, like he says every time. It’s something they discuss often. The fact that this isn’t his fault, that nobody’s angry with him. The fact that he’s sick, and people can’t help getting sick sometimes.

“It’s pretty zen, you know,” Tom says. “Going back to Beacon Hills. You know, like coming full circle. Back to before . . . everything. Very zen.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I feel very zen.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He looks over at his father and says, “Thanks, Dad. For, you know, being willing to drop everything and move for my sake. You know. _Again_.”

Tom waves this aside. “We’ll find a place where we can both lead a good life,” he says. “I have a good feeling about Beacon Hills, Stiles. I think things are going to be a lot better there.”

“Well, not if you jinx us,” Stiles says.

Tom laughs. “I don’t believe in jinxes.”

“Me neither,” Stiles says, but to be honest, he has no idea what he believes.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

In all honesty, Stiles would have rather not moved back into the house where he had spent his early childhood years. He knows that the fact that it was on the market made it seem like fate, but he thought it was morbid. Like his father was trying to go back in time, trying to get back to the time when Claudia was alive and Stiles was okay. They can’t get back there. Things will never be ‘right’ again; _he_ will never be ‘right’ again.

But his father seemed so enthusiastic about the idea when he had brought it up that Stiles hadn’t had the heart to say something. Which is why he’s a little surprised when his father pulls into an apartment complex and makes a right turn into a parking lot. “Is the house not ready?” he asks, looking over at his father.

“No house,” Tom says, pulling into a spot next to an L-shaped building. When he sees that Stiles is just blinking at him in surprise, he says, “You didn’t seem to like the idea. Besides, we don’t need all that space anyway.”

Stiles lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “Thanks,” he says.

“Thought you could fool your old man, huh?” Tom says. “I know you too well for that. C’mon, let’s go check it out.”

“Okay.” Stiles gets out of the Jeep and grabs his backpack, following his father up the short walk. They’ve got the apartment on the first floor in the long side of the L. It’s surprisingly spacious, although he supposes that it’ll seem a lot less so once it’s full of their furniture. The kitchen is to their left as they enter, with a bar overlooking the living room. A hallway comes off that room which leads to a bathroom and two small bedrooms. One of them has another bathroom off of it, so that one has to be the master bedroom. He doesn’t mind having a small room.

“Now, the movers will be here with everything in the morning,” Tom says. “I’ll handle all of that because you’ll be in school by then.”

“Lucky me,” Stiles says.

His father gives him a sympathetic shoulder squeeze. “Anyway, I just wanted you to see it. Obviously we can’t sleep here. We’ve got a hotel room reserved. What do you say we go see if Rosati’s Pizza is still as good as it used to be?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. His father shouldn’t have pizza, but he’s feeling too intensely grateful after seeing the apartment to bring that up, which was surely his father’s plan.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

He dreams of the fire that night, for the first time in a long time. Dreams of standing in a room while the world crashes in on him, while his very skin is burned off and everything is pain.

He’s had worse nightmares, and if they hadn’t been in a hotel room, he probably would have shaken it off by himself. As it is, his tossing and turning wakes his father, who rouses him. Tom asks if he wants to talk about it, and Stiles says no. His father says okay, kisses the crown of his head, and goes back to bed.

Stiles lies awake for a little while, not thinking, but gradually dozes off.

He finds himself standing in a long corridor with doors on every side. Doors represent choice, he knows, although he thinks that a lot of dream analysis is bullshit. The hallway is dim, with a few fluorescent lights that flicker overhead. The floor is gray linoleum, and the walls are tile. Hospital walls. He knows the type.

There’s a loud bang to his right, and he jumps. The door shudders in its frame as someone inside wails on it. He can hear unearthly shrieks and hisses coming from behind it. It’s not the kind of door you would find at a hospital. It has steel bars, and there’s a creature inside that’s definitely not human; it has a skull for a face and an enormous frame.

He keeps walking. From inside the next room, he can hear a jumble of moans and wails. He resolutely ignores them, not looking into the cell. Something is drawing him down to the end of the hallway, something magnetic, compulsive, that he can’t deny.

The room at the end is different. Instead of the bars, there’s a wall made entirely of glass. And inside is the most monstrous monster that Stiles has seen.

It has to be over eight feet tall, and is only barely human shaped. It has two arms and two legs, but that’s where the resemblance ends. The jointed legs are hugely muscular, and the shoulders at least a foot broader than the usual human ratio would make them, hunched and curved inward. Hair covers the entire body, and the face isn’t human at all, but more like a wolf, with a protruding snout and a mouth full of teeth and ears that come forward. The creature’s eyes are glowing crimson, and a low snarl is coming from its mouth.

It’s a terrifying creature, but Stiles doesn’t feel afraid at all. He watches it pace back and forth in its cell, prowling around restlessly. There’s so much power packed into its body, and to confine it like this seems like a terrible crime.

He lifts his hand and rests it against the glass.

The reaction from the creature is immediate and violent. Its body twists around and its lips peel back to reveal teeth as a snarl bubbles up.

“Hi,” Stiles breathes out, and it’s such a stupid, useless thing to say. But it’s all he can think of. The creature regards him warily. It takes a shuffling, sideways step closer, then back, circling, but getting closer to the glass each time. Stiles stays where he is, letting it approach at its own pace. Him, Stiles thinks. It’s a him, not an it. The nakedness has made it fairly apparent now that the creature has straightened up somewhat.

He’s struck by this sudden urge to touch the creature, the feeling that being able to do so will help. He presses his hand against the glass, and it parts underneath his fingertips. The creature stops moving, staring up at him. The crimson glow fades from the eyes and they become human, a grayish blue, and in a voice that’s both human and not, the monster says, “Stiles.”

Stiles wakes up with a start. He looks over at his father, but Tom is sound asleep. He can’t have been moving or making that much noise. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest and he’s soaked with sweat and he’s even got a partial erection. Every teenager with a penis is accustomed to morning wood, but he doesn’t usually have it when he wakes up from his dreams.

Slowly, he lies back down. There’s some dim light leaking around the curtains now. It’s nearly dawn.

He expects to lie there the rest of the night, because he hardly ever falls back asleep after his nightmares when they hit this late, but much to his surprise, his eyelids sag almost immediately. He rolls onto his side and slides back into sleep, thinking about the creature knowing his name, saying it out loud in a way that was like an embrace. For the first time in years, he doesn’t dream at all.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your amazing comments! <3
> 
> To my non-American friends: yes, getting your medication in America absolutely can be this difficult. Believe it or not.
> 
> ETA: I probably should have mentioned, this fic is obviously not canon compliant, but diverges in that Peter isn't killed at the end of season 1, but ends up in Eichen House instead. So seasons 2-4 basically didn't happen. There will be more on this later, obviously, but Peter only did, let's say, 35% of the awful stuff he did in the show in this 'verse (because I really have no interest in one-dimensional villain Peter anyway, and Visionary was a crock).

 

School starts at exactly seven twenty. To ease the pain, Tom takes Stiles by Starbucks in the morning so he could have a ridiculous coffee treat. Caffeine always helps with his ADD, keeps him calm and focused. The Adderall is the one psychiatric medication he never stopped taking.

“Okay, got everything?” Tom asks, pulling up to the school.

“Yep,” Stiles says.

“Phone? Meds? Lunch?” Tom presses.

“Yes, yes, and yes,” Stiles says. He carries Xanax in case of panic attacks, and had to get a special note from his doctor that said he was allowed to carry it and self-administer.

“Okay. I’ll be here at two fifteen to pick you up. See you then.” Tom reaches over and tousles Stiles’ hair. He gives his father what he hopes is a reassuring smile before angling his gazelle legs out of the Jeep.

He gets a few curious looks on his way up the steps, but tries to pretend he’s not anxious. He’s just a normal kid, he can do this. He has his meds. The long-sleeved plaid shirt hides his scars. Nobody here knows who he is; nobody is hiding behind a door to jump out at him. So he takes a few deep breaths and heads for the office. He knows the ‘new student’ routine by now, and just hopes that the teachers don’t make a big deal out of introducing him.

His orientation packet is small, his schedule is sensible, and the first classroom is easy to find. He walks in at seven eighteen and asks the teacher where he should sit. She points him to an empty seat and then says, “Er, how do I pronounce this . . .?”

“Oh, you can just call me Stiles,” he says, and sees the familiar look of relief on her face.

Other kids are shuffling in, and he gets a few more curious looks, but they settle into their seats without asking him a bunch of questions. Once the bell has rung, the teacher says, “Class, we have a new student who just moved from Montana, Stiles.” She gestures, and he gives a little wave. “Make sure to help him find his way around, okay? Today we’re talking about Ohm’s Law . . .”

That’s the entirety of his introduction, making his physics teacher his new favorite person in the universe. And the class isn’t bad. Nobody’s staring at him, and he’s able to focus on his work. He gets through his first four classes just fine, and he’s starting to actually mellow out a little as he deposits his first three books in his locker so he doesn’t have to carry them around all afternoon.

“Hey!” A voice behind him says just as he starts to close his locker, and he slams the door so hard it rattles. “Oh, geez, I’m sorry, did I sneak up on you?”

“No, I’m okay, I just – ” Stiles chokes out, then forces himself to stop. “I’m cool.”

“You’re Stiles, right?” the other teenager says. He’s got tanned skin and black hair that’s standing up in somewhat fluffy spikes, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt with a long-sleeved white shirt underneath, and jeans. When Stiles nods confirmation, a huge grin splits his face. “I’m Scott! Do you remember me?”

“Scott . . .?” Stiles’ voice trails off.

“Oh, it’s totally okay if you don’t, it was a long time ago,” Scott says. “We were friends in like, first grade, before you moved away. You used to come over to my house and we would play make believe aliens and astronauts in my tree house. I totally cried when you moved. Like, for days, my mom says.”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “Sorry, I don’t really . . . have a lot of memories of back then.”

“That’s okay!” Scott says. “It was a long time ago. Hey, are you headed to lunch? Me too. C’mon, I’ll show you the way.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s a little hesitant, feeling the situation out, but not overly anxious. He digs in his memory as they head down the hall, but the best he can do is a vague memory of a boy with floppy hair crying over a dead frog that they had found in the road. He supposes that’s better than nothing.

Scott waves him over to a table in the cafeteria, where he’s sitting with a group of other students. Stiles tries to remember their names, but he doesn’t have a lot of hope that they’ll stay friends with him for long. There’s Allison, the gorgeous brunette, and Lydia, the even more gorgeous redhead. Then there’s a tall, gangly boy named Isaac and a black kid named Boyd. A tired-looking blonde named Erica rounds out the ensemble.

“So you moved from Montana?” Boyd asks.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. My dad got a job offer down here.”

“They actually used to live here when we were kids,” Scott says. “But you moved away in, I wanna say, 2003?”

“2004,” Stiles corrects. “Yeah. My mom got sick and we got her into a clinical trial in Boston.” He doesn’t love to talk about it, but there’s no point in trying to make something up. “She died a couple years later, so it’s just me and my dad.”

The others seem to sense his reluctance, and they don’t ask a lot of questions. In fact, Allison changes the subject, talking about a test in her French class. She seems annoyed with the teacher. Scott is awkwardly trying to encourage her. Stiles goes quiet, watching the conversation play out around the table. He’s always enjoyed people watching, enjoyed figuring out what people are really like underneath the masks that everyone wears.

This group is particularly interesting. Lydia is haughty and aloof but shows moments of genuine kindness. Isaac is quiet but a deadpan snarker. Erica bitches and moans about everything to cover up the fact that she’s genuinely exhausted. Boyd contributes little, but when he does, everyone goes quiet a moment as if to let what he said sink in.

The dynamic between Scott and Allison is especially weird. Stiles chalks it up to ‘awkward exes’ almost immediately – Scott keeps trying to be nice to her but then withdrawing as if he’s not sure his attention is welcome. And Allison is almost certainly dating Isaac, if the way he cozies up to her is any indication. But at the same time, Scott and Isaac seem to be on genuinely good terms, and Stiles thinks he sees Isaac shooting Scott just as many longing glances as he shoots Allison.

It’s none of his business, Stiles supposes. So he eats his sandwich and his apple and finds a note that his father tucked away in a little bag of cookies. It just says ‘hope your first day is going well’. A faint smile touches Stiles’ face. He still feels guilty about everything he’s put his father through, but it helps so much to know that his father always has his back.

“Do you play any sports at all?” Scott asks him, and Stiles jolts back into the conversation.

“Uh, no, well, sort of,” Stiles says. “I tried out for basketball and lacrosse at my old school but didn’t make it.”

“Scott’s the captain of the lacrosse team here,” Allison says. Scott smiles at her, and she blushes and looks away.

“Lacrosse is _the_ sport at Beacon Hills,” Lydia says, daintily nibbling at a carrot stick.

“You should come by practice,” Scott says. “I mean, it’s too late to change first line, the roster is set, but everyone’s welcome to join the team. Even if, you know, they don’t ever actually play. And Coach loves me, he’d give you a tryout if I asked.”

“I can’t,” Stiles says. “Not today, anyway. My dad is picking me up from school. The movers are coming with all our stuff and I need to help unpack.”

“Oh, sure,” Scott says. “Some other day, maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles says, not sure why he cares.

The bell rings. Scott says to Stiles, “What do you have next?”

“Uh . . .” Stiles checks his schedule. “Math. Room 203.”

“I’m going that way, I’ll show you,” Boyd says. Stiles nods and follows, still feeling awkward. The halls are pretty busy, so there isn’t much conversation, but it’s easy to keep track of Boyd. When they reach the classroom, Boyd stops and says, “He’s really like that, you know?”

“What?” Stiles asks.

“I saw the way you looked at Scott, like you can’t quite believe he’s for real,” Boyd says. “I know the feeling. But he really is just that . . . he’s just a really good guy. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Okay. Uh, thanks,” he adds, and ducks into the classroom before the day can get any weirder.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The movers have come and gone by the time Stiles gets back to the apartment, and there’s furniture and boxes everywhere. Their first few moves had been relatively light, but they had been in Missoula a while, long enough to really accumulate some belongings. Stiles doesn’t really remember the move from Oregon to Denver, but he does remember Denver to Montana, where they just rented a trailer and didn’t bother to hire movers at all. Stiles is pretty sure the only reason they had bothered this time is because his dad’s back hasn’t been great recently, and he didn’t want to do a lot of heavy lifting.

“Hey, how was school?” Tom asks, looking over as Stiles comes into the apartment and wades between stacks of boxes. He’s in the kitchen, unpacking.

“It was okay,” Stiles says, and sees the slightly disappointed look on his father’s face. “No, actually, it was good. Nobody made a big deal out of introducing me. I might have even made a friend.”

“Yeah?” Tom says, loading a stack of plates into a cupboard.

“Yeah, I guess I knew him when I was a kid, Scott McCall?” Stiles says.

“Scoot McCute!” Tom says, laughing, and Stiles laughs, too. “That’s what your mom used to call him. He was the only kid in the neighborhood that she said was as cute as you. How’s he doing?”

“Well, he filled out better than I did, that’s for sure,” Stiles says. “He’s the captain of the lacrosse team. He asked me if I wanted to go to a practice or something.”

“Yeah? That might be fun,” Tom says, carefully reserving judgment.

“Maybe,” Stiles says. He wants these people to think that he’s normal, but at the same time, he’s _not_ normal, and the more time they spend with him, the easier it’s going to be for them to realize that. Scott is so enthusiastic that it doesn’t seem like it’ll be easy to slow things down. He’s a one-man friendship train and Stiles feels like he’s about to be run over.

Seeing that Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it a lot, Tom says, “So, the movers brought all your stuff into your room, if you want to start unpacking. I’m going to head to the grocery store soon so we can pick up some stuff to make for dinner.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, grateful for the escape. He heads into his room and starts arranging his furniture how he wants it, then unpacking his boxes of books, video games, and clothes. When he’s done with that, he starts on his homework.

He’s about halfway through when his father calls out to him from the other room. “Stiles? Do you want to go to the grocery with me?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, closing his physics textbook and jogging out to the other room. He does more of the cooking than his father anyway, since he works full time. Otherwise he would eat nothing but cheeseburgers and curly fries and have a heart attack once a month. “Hey, I think there’s a Whole Foods here, can we go there?”

“Maybe after I get my first paycheck,” Tom jokes. They head down to the local Kroger instead. They had moved some non-perishables that they hadn’t eaten up in time, but their cupboards are mostly bare. Stiles fills the cart with vegetables and fruit and heart healthy cereal, while his father sneaks around behind him to add some chips. It’s a long tradition.

It’s too late to cook anything elaborate, so Stiles grabs a package of lean hamburger (even he can’t stand the ground turkey burgers) and says, “Did you find the George Foreman in our stuff yet?”

“Yeah, it’s unpacked,” Tom says, so they add some hamburger buns and other fixings to the cart. He’ll make something better over the weekend and then they’ll eat leftovers all week. “Oh, I nearly forgot, we need to stop by the pharmacy and pick up your prescription.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says. He’s not exactly enthusiastic about it, but it’s not like he can argue. So they pay for their groceries and head to the pharmacy on the corner. He hangs in the back while his father talks to the person at the counter about how the prescription was supposed to be transferred from the pharmacy up in Missoula.

“Yeah, I’ve got it right here,” the pharmacy technician says. She rings it up and says, “That’ll be . . . uh . . . two forty-six forty-eight?” Her voice goes up at the end, and it’s obviously a question.

“Uh, it shouldn’t be . . .” Tom fumbles for his insurance card. “I only have a forty dollar copay.”

“Okay, sir, let me just . . .” She starts typing for a minute. “It looks like the insurance has been termed. Cancelled, I mean.”

“No, I have Cobra coverage,” Tom says. “I just changed jobs. The insurance is supposed to be good until the end of the month.”

“I’m sorry, it isn’t going through,” the technician says.

“Jesus,” Tom says. “He can’t go without it. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“You’d have to call your insurance to see what the problem was with your coverage,” she says apologetically.

“It’s too late for them to still be open, though . . .”

Since Tom is clearly trying to figure out how he’s going to swing paying two hundred and fifty dollars for the medication, Stiles walks over and plucks at his sleeve. “Dad? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Tom frowns slightly, but says, “Yeah, sure,” and walks over to one of the aisles with him.

“Please don’t shell out two hundred fifty bucks for this stuff,” Stiles says. “I know we can’t afford it.”

Tom sighs. “Look, kiddo, I think I know our finances better than you. Besides, that isn’t the point. It isn’t a matter of choice. You have to have your medication.”

Stiles shifts from foot to foot. “No, I don’t,” he says. “It . . . look, Dad, can I tell you something, but please don’t be mad?”

“Did you stop taking it again?” Tom asks, and groans. “Damn it, Stiles, I – ”

“No, I haven’t!” Stiles says. “I swear on mom’s grave, Dad, I take it every day. I have ever since the, you know, the panic attack at school. But it’s just – it doesn’t work. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do. It’s an anti-psychotic, right? I’m on it because I have visual hallucinations. But the Zyprexa, it doesn’t stop me from having them. None of the medications I’ve ever been on have.”

Tom stares at him. “Have you told the doctor that?”

“Of course I have,” Stiles says. “Or at least, I used to. But every time I said something, they’d change my meds again, or worse yet just increase the dose until I was a drooling zombie, and even _then_ , I would still be having the vis – the hallucinations. None of these drugs make them go away, but after a while I just started telling the doctors that they did, because then they felt better. Honest to God, Dad, they’re not that bad. Yes, okay, on occasion I go around the bend, but I don’t – I don’t know if that’s because of what I see or if it’s just because, you know, everything. Anyway, all I’m saying is, it won’t hurt anything if I stop taking it for a few days until you can get the insurance straightened out.”

“Well, hell, son,” Tom says wearily, “if we’re going to be honest I could do without spending forty bucks a month on medication that doesn’t do anything besides provide a placebo effect to your doctor.”

“Everyone kind of freaked out when I just stopped taking them,” Stiles says, but then admits, “but I didn’t notice any difference personally. I swear to you, I still take the Effexor and the Xanax when I need it. It’s only the anti-psychotics that I _ever_ stopped taking.”

“Okay,” Tom says, and huffs out a sigh. “Okay, look, we can talk about this more when we’re not standing in a CVS and have a car full of groceries. Just – promise me one thing. I don’t want you to lie to me. If the medication doesn’t work, just tell me. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says, and when his father gives him a suspicious look, he says, “I promise.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Tom says, and hooks an arm around his shoulders. “Let me go tell the pharmacist that, and then we’ll go home.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and waits until his father gets back, and then they head out to the car. “Thanks,” he says, once they’re driving again. “For not freaking out.”

Tom gives another sigh. “Look, Stiles . . . I can’t say that I’m a medical genius. I don’t know why they haven’t been able to find a medication that will help you. But if they can’t . . . maybe you have the right attitude about it. A better attitude than I have. If it’s just a part of you, then . . . all you can do is learn to handle it. And all in all, I think you do a damned good job of that.”

Stiles flushes pink and looks away. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “I do a _great_ job.”

“Look, you’ve had months, even years, when you really have done well,” Tom says. “And if we’re going to be honest, what happened in Missoula . . . if your classmates hadn’t been assholes and your school administrators had been worth half a damn . . . that never should have gotten as bad as it did.” He shakes his head a little and turns out of the parking lot. “From now on . . . I want you to tell me what you see. Okay? Maybe that’ll help. Just tell me about it.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks. “It can be kind of freaky sometimes.”

“If you can handle seeing it, then I can handle hearing about it,” Tom says firmly. “If it helps, it’ll be worth it.”

“Okay,” Stiles says.

“Now that’s enough serious talk for one day, I think,” Tom says. “Let’s go home and fire up the grill.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles has heard that most people, if they realize they’re dreaming, will wake up. Or some people can control their dreams, once they know it’s a dream. He never gets either of those things. If he becomes aware that it’s a dream – which happens about one time in ten – it doesn’t make any difference. In some ways, it’s worse, because he tries so hard to alter the course of whatever horror he’s witnessing, but never can.

So when he finds himself in the same hallway for the second night in a row, with doors on either side of him, he’s instantly aware that he’s dreaming, and he doesn’t look forward to it. But he walks down the hallway again, gaze darting from side to side, examining the different creatures. A lot of them are types of monsters that he’s actually seen before. ‘Seen’, he supposes – in his waking visions.

He heads down to the room at the end, like he had the previous dream, and finds the same monster in the same cell. But it seems different somehow; it seems like the creature is waiting for him. He approaches the glass warily, like he had before, but without the hostility. Stiles presses his hand against the glass and waits. He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for.

“Stiles,” the creature says, his voice low-pitched and husky, almost a growl. Stiles isn’t sure if that’s just what this creature sounds like, or if he hasn’t spoken for a very long time.

“Yeah,” he says, watching him prowl back and forth in fascination. “How do you know my name?”

“Stiiiiiiles,” he replies, dragging the word out, and dear God, Stiles wonders, why is he getting hard from that? There’s got to be something wrong with him. The monster comes over and reaches out to him, but his claws hit the glass wall, and he gives a frustrated snarl.

Thinking back to the first dream, when the glass had dissolved beneath his fingers, Stiles reaches out tentatively. The glass again parts underneath his hand, and he’s able to reach through. He does it slowly, because dream or no dream, he doesn’t want the monster to take his fingers off. The instant his fingers brush over the creature’s fur, it feels like an electric shock has gone through him. Every nerve in his body suddenly jumps to attention, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. “Hey,” he says, choking the word out. “Hey, what’s your name?”

The creature is very still, with Stiles’ hand cradling the side of his face, and he’s staring at Stiles like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. The moment hangs, suspended in time for what seems like an eternity. The monster starts to _change_. It shifts and shrinks, the back straightening out, shoulders adjusting, hair receding into soft skin. He becomes a man, still just as naked, skinny as a rail and with limp brown hair falling down around his face in clumpy waves. His face is covered with a thin scruff of beard, and his eyes are the same blue-grey that Stiles had seen in the first dream.

Stiles has no idea what to do, what to say to this man (man?) who’s now standing in front of him, clearly just as stunned as he is. He’s still got one hand on the side of his face, and it should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.

“What’s your name?” he repeats, barely a whisper.

“Peter,” the man replies, his voice quiet and hoarse. “It’s Peter.”

“Hi,” Stiles says, again feeling foolish. “Hi, Peter. I’m Stiles. I guess you already knew that. You, uh, you don’t look like a Peter. I’m not sure what you do look like.” When Peter still just stares at him, he says, “Uh, can I, can I come in?”

Peter backs away a few steps. When Stiles comes in, the glass simply parting around him, he takes a few more, pressing himself into the corner. Stiles stops, holding his hands up in surrender. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “I’ll stay over here if you don’t want me too close.” To show that he means it, he lowers himself to the floor right where he is. Then he takes a moment to ponder what an extremely strange dream this is, even for him.

The silence stretches out as Peter sinks to the floor in his corner, knees drawn to his chest. His gaze darts around the room, wary and suspicious.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Peter’s head dips in a little nod, and he says nothing. Stiles doesn’t say anything either, because he has no idea what to say. He has so many questions that he doesn’t know where to start. Where are they? What is this place? Is Peter trapped here? Does Peter even exist in real life, or is he somehow the product of Stiles’ subconscious? He supposes that he could be taking things too far. It’s just a dream. But it feels so real, unlike any dream or nightmare he’s ever had before.

He’s thinking about it so hard that he’s actually startled when Peter speaks again. “Forgotten,” the man murmurs. “Forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?” Stiles asks. “Your name?”

“Everything,” Peter says, and closes his eyes. He looks utterly exhausted. “Thank you.”

“Uh, yeah, you’re . . . welcome?” Stiles guesses. He has no idea what’s going on, but he has a strange, warm feeling in his stomach.

When he wakes up the next morning, that’s the last of the dream that he remembers, but he’s strangely tired, like he hadn’t slept at all.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

 

“So, how are you settling in to Beacon Hills, Stiles?” Marin Morrell asks with a smile.

Stiles hates her smile. He hates her existence on the same planet as him, to be honest. He’s tried for years to give psychologists and psychiatrists the benefit of the doubt. They want to help him. He knows that. But they don’t _listen_ to him. First it was because he was a child, and these days it’s just because he’s ‘crazy’. He’s been in treatment for years; he’s had four separate hospital admissions. They all know he’s nuts, and therefore his opinions are invalid.

Morrell has gotten at least one thing going for her on the surface, though; she asked to see Stiles by himself. His last two psychologists have wanted his father there for the appointment, so he could relay ‘the facts’. So at least Morrell is willing to talk to Stiles directly, rather than just talking about him and over his head.

“It’s okay, you know,” Stiles says. “It seems like a nice place.”

“How are your classes?” she asks.

“They’re fine.”

“Have you gotten to know anybody, make any friends?”

Stiles resists the urge to say ‘I’ve been here less than a week’. “Uh, yeah, I guess. I’m thinking about trying out for lacrosse.”

“That’s a great idea,” Morrell says. “Exercise is very good for anxiety and depression.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, because he knows that. He’s not exactly athletic by nature. He had tried out for sports in Missoula mainly to fit in, and it’ll be the same thing here. He’s more of an academic, but on the other hand, that means he’s well aware of the role that endorphins play in exercise and anxiety.

“How’s your father doing?” Morrell asks.

This question takes Stiles by surprise. He doesn’t think any psychologist before has wanted _his_ opinion on his father’s well-being. It’s always been the opposite. He gives Morrell the side-eye, thinking that maybe she’s not quite as bad as he anticipated. “He’s okay. I think he’s happy to be back here. Which kind of surprises me, I mean, since this is where we lived with my mom. But it seems to be working for him.”

“That’s good,” Morrell says. “Have you been taking all your medication?”

Aaaaaand there it is. Stiles sighs a little and says, “Yes, ma’m.”

Morrell smiles at him. “I’m not here to judge you, Stiles. I just want to know how you’re doing. Most people who stop taking their medication, it’s because of side effects, and there are things – ”

“ – we can do to help, and you know I have a history of not taking my meds,” Stiles finishes for her. “Look, Ms. Morrell, I’ve been in psychiatric care since I was ten. I know the deal. There were a few days where I had to stop taking my Zyprexa because my dad’s insurance got messed up by the job transfer, but that’s it. Other than that, I take all my medication as directed. I so solemnly swear.”

Morrell wisely changes the subject. “Have you had any hallucinations?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

Stiles regrets that a moment later when Morrell says, “Surprisingly?”

“Well, I mean, I did have to go off my meds for a few days,” Stiles hedges.

“Do you have hallucinations while you’re on your medication?” Morrell asks.

“Sometimes,” Stiles mutters.

Morrell regards him for a few moments, then says, “Stiles, I’m not your psychiatrist. I don’t make any decisions about your medication. If your psychiatrist wants to change your medication because he’s worried about its efficacy, that’ll be up to him. My job is to help you deal with whatever’s going on in your life. Which means that, if you are having hallucinations, my job is to help you deal with that. So. How often do you have hallucinations?”

Stiles sighs. “Maybe once or twice a week.”

“How do you deal with it when it happens?”

“I usually just close my eyes and remind myself that it isn’t real until it stops,” Stiles says, with a shrug.

“Does that work?”

“About half the time, sure. The other half the time I have a panic attack and ruin my life.”

Then of course Morrell wants to talk about panic attacks, and Stiles puts up with it, even though she can’t possibly say anything he’s never heard before. He’s studied both the physiology and the psychology of panic attacks in and out. He knows exactly how they work. If anything, that makes it worse, when he’s caught in the throes of a panic attack, knowing exactly what’s happening but still unable to stop it. He just lets Morrell talk for a little while.

“So, do you have any questions for me?” Morrell asks, which gets her another side-eye. He’s never had a psychologist ask that before. This time she notices. “I’m supposed to be a resource for you, Stiles. I want you to be comfortable asking me things.”

Stiles gives an explosive sigh. “What the hell do you think you can tell me that I don’t already know? You’re a psychologist, okay? Which means that you’ve had a class or two on abnormal psychology. Maybe they did one unit on schizophrenia. I bet they barely even touched my diagnosis, which is psychotic disorder not otherwise specified. They’ve tried to slap dozens of labels on me. Schizophrenic. Schizotypal. Schzioaffective! Bipolar. PTSD. Any combination of the above. Let’s face it, Ms. Morrell, nobody knows what’s wrong with me, least of all you. I’ve been diagnosed with things you probably haven’t even heard of, and then two weeks and an episode later they change their minds. You took a class or two, well, I’ve read books on these subjects. Books, plural. I’ve read graduate thesis papers written by people from Belgium and Germany.

“You sit here in your office all day and talk to people who have anxiety and major depression and, and _normal_ things. I’m not saying they don’t need help, and bravo to you for helping them. But I’ve seen specialists from all over the country. I had one guy try to write a paper on me. The only reason I’m in this God damned room right now is because it makes my father happy for me to see a shrink. So why don’t you just take a step back, tone down the condescension, and tell me when my next appointment needs to be?”

Morrell arches her eyebrows during this rant, and then says, “Okay. I’ll see you in a week, and we’ll see what we can do about your anger issues.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles retorts, and leaves the office without another word.

Sure he has anger issues. Of _course_ he has anger issues. Who wouldn’t, in his shoes? And sure, it’s the unfortunate kind of nebulous anger which is easily directed at undeserving targets. This isn’t Morrell’s fault. It’s not anybody’s fault, like his dad always tells him. He’s sick. Some wires got crossed in his brain and that’s not anybody’s fault. But he hates Morrell anyway, for no particular reason. It doesn’t help that he had just seen his new psychiatrist the previous day, and of _course_ he had decided to increase the Zyprexa when he heard that Stiles was still having hallucinations. Stiles agreed, but afterwards told his father that the instant he started having side effects, he was going back to the lower dose. Tom said that seemed reasonable to him.

Twenty minutes later, as he’s walking home, his phone rings. He looks down to see his father on the screen, and sighs. Great. Morrell called him, and now he’s probably freaking out. He picks up with, “I’m fine!”

There’s a moment of hesitation. “I didn’t say you weren’t,” Tom says.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry. What’s up?”

“I take it your first appointment didn’t go well?” Tom asks.

“It went fine. I don’t like her. When was the last time I liked a shrink?”

“Fair enough,” Tom says. “Anyway, that wasn’t why I was calling. I wanted to check in with you before I accepted a dinner invitation.”

“Oh, sure,” Stiles says. “From who?”

“Scott’s mom, Melissa, thought we might like to come over. I ran into her while I was working – had to go down to the hospital to talk to a victim. I know you and Scott had been getting to know each other, but I figured I’d double check with you first.”

“Yeah, that sounds cool. Tonight?”

“If that’s okay.”

“Sure. I’ll go home and make something to bring for dessert.” Stiles says goodbye to his father and continues to talk home, thinking about how his father can be sensitive to his needs _without_ making him feel like a complete nutcase. It’s a line that nobody else seems to be able to figure out how to walk. Even his few friends in Missoula hadn’t known how to treat him after his breakdown. Those who kept talking to him treated him like he was made of glass.

Stiles sighs and puts that out of his mind. He goes home and starts a pecan pie, one of his father’s favorites. It’s a Friday afternoon, so he doesn’t have to worry about homework. He turns it into a pretty good afternoon, working off his anger at Morrell by cleaning up around the kitchen. Generally speaking, he’s safe when he’s by himself. It’s when he’s out and about that he has the hallucinations. At one point he hears something from the parking lot, but he resolutely doesn’t go see what it is.

At five thirty, his father gets home, and he goes to change out of his uniform. Stiles smells a suspicious amount of cologne on him after he changes – suspicious amount being ‘existent’ – and grins to himself but doesn’t mention it.

Scott greets him with his usual enthusiasm. “Hey! What’s up! Mr. Stilinski! Hi! I haven’t seen you in ages!” He shakes Tom’s hand and lets them into the house. It’s a little cluttered, but neat and clean. “Mom, the Stilinskis are here!”

Melissa McCall, a smiling woman with curly black hair, comes out to say hi, and she gives Stiles a hug and then takes the pie.

“C’mon, man, I’ll show you my room,” Scott says, and pounds up the stairs without waiting to see if Stiles is going to follow. Stiles does, obviously, and the room is a normal teenager’s room, stacked with stuff, video games scattered all over the floor, bed unmade. “Oh, man, Mom will kill me,” Scott says, hastily throwing the blankets over the bed.

“I don’t care,” Stiles says, laughing. “I haven’t made my bed since I was, like, nine.”

“Well, me neither, if company isn’t coming,” Scott says, but then adds, “but you’re not really company! You’re just a friend. Hey, do you play Halo?”

Just like that, the friendship train has taken off from the station. Stiles allows himself to be dragged along, because he _loves_ Halo, and they start talking about movies, and then he finds out that Scott has never seen Star Wars, and, just, _what_. He orders Scott to come over the next day so they can marathon all three, heartily bitches about the prequels, and lets Scott make him promise that in return, he’ll give Parks and Recreation a try.

“Kids, dinner’s ready!” Melissa calls, and they barrel downstairs to stuff themselves with massive amounts of lasagna. Cautiousness aside, by the time they’re finished with dessert, Stiles feels like he’s lived in Beacon Hills and had dinner with Scott’s family for years.

“See you tomorrow,” he calls to Scott as they leave. “Be there or be square!”

Tom is laughing quietly as they get in the Jeep. “So, you had fun.”

“How can someone not have seen _Star Wars_ , for crying out loud,” Stiles says. “But yeah. So did you! You should ask Melissa out.”

“Stiles, you don’t know – ”

“Oh yeah, I do,” Stiles says. “That part where you offered to help load the dishwasher? She was _totally_ staring at your butt. You should absolutely ask her out.”

“I’ll think about it,” Tom says. Then, a few moments later: “Was she really?”

Stiles grins. “Yes, she was, and I’m pretty sure she liked what she saw!”

Tom gives him a light thwap over the head. “Keep your commentary to yourself,” he says.

“Sure, Dad,” Stiles says, smirking. “You’re the boss.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

By now, the dreams have a strange feeling of routine about them. He starts at some point in the hallway, and walks over to Peter’s cell. Peter is usually curled up in the corner furthest from where Stiles will make his appearance. He doesn’t talk much, mumbles a little, but allows Stiles into the cell without growling. Stiles has tried a series of questions like ‘what is this place’ and ‘why are you here’ but he never really gets a response.

But no matter what he says, the longer he’s there, the more Peter starts to relax. So Stiles sits in the other corner and talks to Peter, about his day, about his father, about Missoula. He watches Peter’s tense body slowly uncurl until he gradually falls asleep (which, how does that even make sense? This is a dream. Nobody should be falling asleep inside a dream. This isn’t _Inception_.).

“So what’s happening, Peter?” he asks, settling into his corner. The man gives him a wary look, so Stiles starts talking about his day. It’s an excellent opportunity to bitch about Morrell, which leads way to bitching about his life in general. He sees that Peter is actually listening attentively for once, instead of dozing off, which makes him nervous.

“Spark,” Peter says, cutting Stiles off mid-tirade.

“What?” Stiles asks, blinking at him.

“You. Spark.” Peter slowly uncurls himself from his tangle of limbs. He tries to get up but can’t. When Stiles moves as if to help him, he snarls. So Stiles backs off, lets Peter crawl over to him. Peter touches his chest with one long finger. “Spark.”

“Uh . . . sure, Peter. Okay,” Stiles says. Peter gives a sigh and looks . . . disappointed in him. It’s actually kind of hilarious, coming from a man who’s three-quarters feral, seven-eighths nonverbal, and completely naked. Peter’s rolling his eyes like it’s going out of style. Amused, Stiles starts to sing. “Baby I’m a firework . . .”

Peter puts a hand over his mouth. “No.”

Stiles grins despite himself and reaches for Peter’s wrist to pull his hand away. Peter snarls at him, showing canines sharper than any human’s, and Stiles goes still. When Peter doesn’t move, Stiles slowly, gently, wraps his fingers around Peter’s wrist and gives it a little tug. Peter’s body is still vibrating in a low growl as Stiles moves his hand. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Abruptly, the tension leaves Peter’s body, and he slumps against the wall next to Stiles, shivering uncontrollably. Stiles reaches over hesitantly, smoothing down his hair and rubbing circles into his back. Peter doesn’t respond to this at all, which Stiles figures is better than being growled at. Much to his surprise, after several minutes have gone by, Peter leans over and presses his cheek against Stiles’ shoulder.

He can feel Peter’s breath on his skin, which is a little odd, awkward but not bad awkward. Moving slowly, Peter leans upwards a bit, pressing his mouth against Stiles’ neck, which, hello, that is _good_ awkward. Stiles can feel Peter’s teeth underneath his lips, and the firm pressure against his skin is going straight down to his groin.

“This is weird and creepy,” he comments to Peter, and Peter gives his neck a little nip in response. “Oh, okay,” Stiles says faintly. “Yeah, good rejoinder. I like it.” He tells himself that it would be absolutely one hundred percent unacceptable to start jerking off. Even in a dream, he can’t just whip his dick out whenever he wants. No matter how hard he’s getting in his loose pajama pants, to the point that it’s got to be pretty obvious.

“I like you, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, the first full sentence that Stiles has heard from him.

“I, uh, I like you too,” Stiles says. “But I’m pretty sure you’re just a manifestation of my subconscious, so, technically is this masturbation?”

Peter pulls back abruptly, looking _affronted_. There’s that eye roll of disappointment again. Then he leans up and presses his mouth against Stiles’, just a light touch, lips slightly parted so Stiles can feel Peter’s breath against him. He feels that pool of warmth in his stomach coil into something else, something _more_ , and –

“Oh, crap,” he says weakly, and then wakes up in bed with sticky sheets, wondering what the hell is wrong with him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles wakes up at about ten AM to find a text from Scott on his phone. ‘Isaac wants 2 come, ok w u?’ He yawns and stretches, texts Scott back to say that’s fine by him, and then ducks into the shower. He has plenty of time; they had agreed to start around one and probably order pizza or something for dinner. He’s a little surprised at how he isn’t that nervous. It’s been over six months since the last time he had somebody over, and he’s never been a social butterfly. But he’s got soda and chips and three hundred seventy-nine minutes of Star Wars. They’ll be fine.

“Hey, you,” his father greets him. “I’m working swing today, won’t be home until around eleven. There’s money for pizza on the counter. I’ve gotta go run some errands before work. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah, see you later,” Stiles says, waving as his father heads out the door.

Stiles busies himself playing Half-Life until there’s a knock at the front door, and then jogs over. He pulls it open to reveal a startling sight. Scott is standing there, bruised and battered. His clothes have practically been shredded, and his face is swollen to the point where one eye won’t open. There’s a cut across his forehead that’s still bleeding, and his hair is matted down with blood. “Whoa,” Stiles says. “Are you okay?”

Scott just looks at him in surprise, and suddenly, between one blink and the next, he’s fine. There’s no trace of any of the injuries that Stiles had just seen, just a surprised looking teenager holding a motorcycle helmet. “What? Yeah. Do I not look okay?”

“No, I, sorry,” Stiles stammers. “I thought I saw – nothing, never mind, come on in. Isaac with you?”

“He’s gonna meet us here later,” Scott says. “I guess he had something to do. But, you know, he’s seen them before, so it’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, because literally everyone has seen Star Wars except you,” Stiles says, closing the door behind him. He shakes his head a little at the hallucination, trying to shake it off. He keeps thinking he’s going to see it again when he looks at Scott, and that makes him anxious and unsure of where to look. He decides to start the movie before things can get even weirder.

He basically has the Star Wars movies memorized, because he’s an enormous nerd, but he’s always ready to watch them again, so after a while he’s half-forgotten about what happened when Scott arrived. Isaac shows up around the same time that Obi-Wan Kenobi dies, and Scott is shouting about how he can’t just _die_ like that, and Isaac laughs at Scott for about ten minutes.

“That was awesome,” Scott says, when the movie is over.

“Second one is even better,” Isaac remarks, as Stiles goes to switch out the DVDs.

“I know the twist, though,” Scott says. “I mean, it’s basically impossible not to know that Darth Vader is Luke’s father. So, you know, don’t be disappointed when I don’t faint in shock.”

“But you didn’t know Obi-Wan died?” Stiles asks.

“I did, but I didn’t realize it would be so early,” Scott says, then frowns and adds, “or so stupid.”

“Hey, watch your mouth,” Stiles says. “That’s a Jedi Knight you’re talking about.”

Scott makes a face at him, and then they have to wallop each other with pillows for a few minutes, before they finally manage to get the second movie put on. Actually, it’s even funnier with Scott knowing The Twist, because he gives the television some serious side-eye at the Luke-Leia kiss and says, “Wait, aren’t they – ”

“Yup,” Isaac says, laughing.

“Wow,” Scott says. “They should have called it Alabama Wars.”

Stiles gives a snort of laughter. When the second movie is over and Scott is talking about how Han Solo had _better_ be rescued at the very beginning of the third movie because a star war without Han Solo isn’t a war worth having. They argue about pizza for a few minutes, Stiles places their order, and talk about the movies while they wait for it to arrive. Scott checks his phone a few times, his forehead wrinkling.

“Everything okay?” Isaac asks, and Stiles is glad he did, so Stiles doesn’t have to.

“Yeah, just, was waiting to see if Allison would text me,” Scott says. Isaac gives him an understanding look, which Stiles particularly fascinating. Most guys in Isaac’s position wouldn’t want to hear about their girlfriend texting their ex. But he seems totally fine with it. In fact, Stiles has seen nothing in the past four hours that have led him to believe that Isaac and Scott are anything but the best of friends. He supposes some people deal with breakups better than others.

“Do you want to start the third or wait until the pizza gets here?” Scott asks.

“Dude, you can’t miss a minute of what happens on Tattooine,” Stiles says, and Isaac nods and agrees. Fortunately, the pizza arrives about twenty minutes later, and once they’re all loaded up, they start the movie. Scott seems a little edgy now, though, obviously trying not to check his phone even though he wants to. After a while, he gets absorbed in the movie, and stops for a little while.

But as soon as the movie is over, while Stiles and Isaac are having a spirited debate over Ewoks (Stiles doesn’t care what anybody says; he loves the Ewoks, okay? He’s not ashamed of that), Scott has his phone out and is tapping out a few quick texts. Only after that does he say that the movies were totally awesome and he has no idea what Isaac’s problem with the Ewoks is.

“Yes!” Stiles says. “Two against one.”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“I will fight you on this,” Stiles says seriously.

“I guess I can let it go on account of the fact that you showed us the original versions instead of those new special versions,” Isaac says.

“You’re damn right,” Stiles says. “I would have played you my original VHS if we had the VCR hooked up, but I think it’s still in a box somewhere.”

Scott’s phone chimes again, and he glances down with that worried, wrinkled forehead. “Hey, uh, I have to go,” he says. “This was awesome, though – next weekend we’re totally marathoning Parks and Rec.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, and asks hesitantly, “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I just – I’ve got some things I need to do, that’s all. But it was great hanging out. Isaac, you want to hitch a ride on my bike?”

“Yeah, sure,” Isaac says, getting to his feet. They chat for another minute before Scott and Isaac head out the door, waving. Stiles ponders it for a minute, then shrugs it off. Scott’s business is Scott’s business, and if he’d gotten a booty call from Allison, he _probably_ didn’t want to mention it in front of Isaac. Although, now that he’s thinking about it, Scott’s worried expression hadn’t screamed ‘booty call’. Maybe Allison was upset about something and he didn’t want Isaac to know.

Stiles isn’t about to figure it out, so he stops trying. He settles back down at his computer, logging on to World of Warcraft.

It’s nearly midnight before his father comes home, and he gives Stiles a reproving look when he sees that he’s still up, but doesn’t comment on it. “What a day,” he groans instead, slumping into the armchair.

“Crime?” Stiles asks, perking up. A good crime story always sends him right to sleep.

“Probably just an animal attack,” Tom says. “Someone found a body out in the woods. Torn up pretty bad. Cougar, maybe.”

“Didn’t they have a problem with animal attacks last year?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, and a cougar was shot and killed, but there might be another one in town.” Tom shrugs. “Fish and Game will handle it. But hey, don’t go out into the woods around dawn or dusk, okay? That’s when you’re most likely to run into one.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He fidgets for a minute. “Hey, I have to tell you something. I – saw something today.”

“Yeah? What?” Tom asks, unlacing his boots and clearly missing the significance of what his son is saying.

“No, Dad, I – I _saw_ something. You wanted me to tell you.”

“Oh.” Tom sets his boot down, a frown crossing his face before he schools it back into a neutral expression. “Okay. What did you see?”

“Just – when Scott came over, for a minute it looked like he’d had the shit kicked out of him. Like, he was really a mess. And then I blinked and he was fine.”

Tom considers this for a minute, starting on his other boot. “How’d you handle it?”

“I don’t know, I just didn’t say anything and started the movie before I could get too freaked out.”

“Sounds pretty smart to me,” Tom says. He reaches out and tousles Stiles’ hair. “Okay. Thanks for telling me. You get to bed, okay? It’s late.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad.” Stiles leans in for a hug, which his father returns, before heading to the bedroom.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

 

The strange thing is, Stiles thinks he’s actually sleeping better than he ever has before, but he still wakes up tired in the mornings. He’s sleeping through the night, rather than waking every hour or two with nightmares. But he finds himself nodding off during his classes, whenever there’s a boring moment.

It’s not like the dreams are particularly riveting. After the one that had ended with him waking up to sticky sheets, Peter hadn’t come out of his corner. He huddles there, rocking himself and mumbling, and Stiles tries to talk to him, to make him feel better, but it only seems to help so much. Peter hasn’t let Stiles touch him again, and hasn’t come anywhere near him.

He can’t be dreaming about it all night. Time is funny in dreams, but it’s not _that_ funny. He can’t just be sitting on the cold tile floor, watching a feral wolf-man, for eight hours at a time. He’s probably having other dreams, too. But the ones with Peter are the ones he remembers when he wakes up, as vividly as if they had actually happened.

That’s what leads to him sitting in pre-calc on a Tuesday, zoning out, half staring at Lydia. She’s pretty, gorgeous really, with her red hair and perfect skin.

She turns to look at him, and in that moment he becomes aware that he’s dreaming. It’s a day-dream, but recognizable all the same, primarily because she doesn’t immediately demand to know why he’s staring at her. Instead, her eyes are wide and blank, and a few moments later, she opens her mouth and begins to scream.

It’s not just a scream, though, it’s a living thing, an echo of something from far beyond mortal comprehension. She screams and screams and screams and Stiles jolts awake as the teacher calls his name. He flails and fumbles for some solid ground, with that scream still ringing in his ears.

“Mr. Stilinski,” the teacher says. “Problem four. Come to the board.”

“Right,” Stiles says, getting up. He stands at the chalkboard and feels his hands shaking. His skin is cold and clammy. He can feel the panic attack building, seizing up his lungs and making his heart pound in his chest. The chalk falls from his trembling fingers and breaks. “Sorry, I can’t – ” he gasps, and bolts from the room.

The bathroom is just down the hall, and he busts in, wedging himself in the corner stall, feeling weak and dizzy. He hates this. The worst part is knowing exactly what’s happening, but still being unable to stop it. He knows it’s just a panic attack. He knows that all he has to do is try to control his breathing. He _knows_ that. But it’s as impossible to stop the attack as it would be to breathe underwater.

“Hey, man, you okay?” a voice asks, and Stiles lets out a weak little moan because he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. He looks up to see Scott’s concerned face swimming in and out of his vision. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t – can’t breathe – ” Stiles gasps out.

“Asthma attack?” Scott guesses. “I used to have asthma, it’s the worst – ”

Stiles shakes his head and tries to stutter out something in the English language. “Panic attack.”

“Oh,” Scott says, but he doesn’t start laughing or look annoyed. “Oh, okay, that’s caused mainly by – you start hyperventilating and you get overoxygenated, right?” he asks, and a small part of Stiles is vaguely impressed. Scott definitely isn’t stupid. “So you just need to slow down your breathing. Okay. I read this thing once, this breathing mantra, you’re supposed to inhale for four seconds, hold it for seven, then exhale for eight. Okay, so, breathe in, I’ll count – ”

Stiles tries, he really does, but he just ends up gasping. “Can’t,” he says, in a little half-sob. “I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can, you totally can, just count with me, Stiles, watch my hands,” Scott says, holding up his hands in front of Stiles’ face and displaying his fingers to the count. “Okay, inhale, one, two, three, four, now hold it, that’s good, Stiles, it’s really good – ”

This is stupid, Stiles thinks, and the stupidest thing about it is that it’s _working_. That he’s focusing on Scott’s hands and Scott’s voice and he’s actually calming down. He’s never been able to do any sort of breathing trick that helps, even knowing that they should; he just doesn’t have the discipline for it. But now it’s working.

It takes several minutes, but gradually the panic scales back, dials down. He finds himself loose-limbed and light-headed, almost a little giddy as it subsides.

“Hey, that’s better, right?” Scott asks.

Stiles looks up at Scott’s earnest face and thinks about how his social life is now over, and he doesn’t even care. He hasn’t been able to stop a panic attack without either drugs or his father in years. “Y-Yeah,” he says, trembling, but strangely calm. “Yeah, thanks.” He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

“I’m going to go tell Mrs. Simmons that you were in here puking,” Scott says. “I’ll get you a pass to the nurse so you can go lie down, okay? Just hang out in here.”

Stiles nods, too tired to argue, unable to figure out why Scott is doing any of this, why Scott is helping him, lying for him. He doesn’t care. Lying down sounds great. He just sits there for a few minutes until Scott comes back with his backpack and helps him to his feet. Then he manages to ask. “Why are you doing this?”

From the puzzled expression on Scott’s face, it’s clear that Stiles might as well have asked why Scott was breathing. “That’s what friends are for, right?” he says, and Stiles manages a weak laugh and a nod as he follows him out of the bathroom. Scott shows him where the nurse’s office is, then gives him a friendly clap on the back and trots back towards the classroom.

The school nurse is aware of Stiles’ psychological issues, because she’s the one who had to sign off on his paperwork to allow him to carry his anti-anxiety medication. So Stiles doesn’t bother lying to her. He just tells her that he had a panic attack and wants to lie down for a little while.

“It’s already almost last period, do you want to just call your dad and have him come pick you up?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, eager to get away before the rumors start spreading. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Gone are the days when he would have to use her phone. He takes out his cell phone and texts his father: ‘call me when u get a sec. NOT AN EMERGENCY,’ he adds, because he knows that his father isn’t quite as prone to panic attacks as he is, but messages from Stiles at school will always make him nervous.

His phone rings less than a minute later. “Hey, Stiles, everything okay?” his father greets him.

“Yeah, I just, I had a panic attack and thought maybe you could come pick me up? Just whenever you have a minute. I know it’s only your second week on the job.”

“Sure,” Tom says. “Everything . . . you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Stiles says. “I got it all under control, I’m just a little light-headed, I’m going to lie down for a bit. Don’t rush.”

“Okay,” Tom says. He sounds a little confused. Stiles doesn’t actually blame him. Normally calls after a panic attack come in one of two flavors. Either Stiles is still having the attack, and the school calls for him, or he calls after he’s drugged himself to the gills with Xanax, in which case he talks much slower and forgets how to make sentence good. Stiles being coherent post-panic-attack is pretty much unheard of up until this moment.

But Tom clearly doesn’t want to ask a bunch of questions over the phone, so he says okay and hangs up and Stiles just lays back and closes his eyes. 

About forty minutes have passed before his phone rings and his father says, “I’m parked outside. Do I need to come in and sign you out or anything?”

“Let me ask the nurse,” Stiles says, and she says no, he’s good to go. He thanks her and goes through the hallways at a brisk walk, hoping that nobody sees him. His father is parked outside, in the cruiser. It seems silly for the Jeep to sit around in the police station parking lot all day when Stiles could use it to get to and from school, but his father has rotating shifts, so it’s not reliably available. “Hey, thanks for picking me up,” Stiles says.

Tom gives him an assessing look, which Stiles is used to. “What happened?”

Stiles lets out a breath as his father pulls away from the school. “I kind of zoned out in math class, and had . . . saw something weird. The girl next to me started screaming, it was weird, kind of . . .” He fumbles for a word and can’t find one. “It was just weird. Anyway, I snapped out of it but then I had a panic attack. I went to the bathroom to, you know, freak out in private, but I guess Scott followed me. He kind of talked me through it and then got me my stuff and took me to the nurse.”

“Oh,” Tom says. There’s a moment of silence. “He talked you through it?”

“Yeah. Stupid, right? Nothing I’d never tried before, just making me count my breaths and stuff, but it helped. I guess maybe it helped to have someone saying it.” Stiles chews on his thumbnail and stares out the window. “I’m sure it’ll be all over school by tomorrow, so, you know . . . goodbye social life.”

Tom grimaces a little and says, “Well, you don’t know that.” He reaches out and gives Stiles’ shoulder a squeeze. “It’s just a little bump in the road. And hey, I’m proud of you. You got yourself to a safe place, you calmed down without needing any medication. That’s pretty awesome.”

“I guess,” Stiles says, brightening up. “I can’t have everything.”

“Well, you would if I had anything to say about it,” Tom says. He changes the subject, talking about one of the police dogs, until he gets to the apartment complex. “You’ll be all right on your own?” he asks, and Stiles nods. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, really,” Stiles says. “I’m feeling okay. I’ll make something special for dinner, okay?”

“All right. See you later.”

He decides to make chicken fajitas. Once the chicken is marinating, he starts chopping peppers and onions, thinking that he’ll go do homework for an hour or so before he starts cooking. His phone chimes and he looks at it somewhat apprehensively. It’s a text from Scott. ‘Feeling better?’

After some deliberation, he just sends back, ‘yeah, thanks.’

A few minutes pass, then Scott says, ‘a bunch of us are going to go see the new fast and furious movie this weekend, want to come?’

Stiles gives his phone the side-eye for a moment before he decides that the offer is probably being made in good faith and not with the intent of springing some sort of trap on him. He texts back, ‘sure, sounds fun’ and goes back to his homework.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles approaches the doors to Beacon Hills High the next morning with no small amount of trepidation. He’s pleasantly surprised when nobody gives him a second glance as he steps in. Nobody’s hiding by his locker to scare him. Nobody says anything they think is funny about his manhood. The events of the previous day might as well have not even happened. The only thing that convinces him that they did is a classmate who offhandedly asks “hey, feeling better?” as they pass him in the hallway, and he nods.

Two minutes later, he’s in his first class, which is history on this particular day. He shares it with Boyd and Isaac, both of whom say hello. People aren’t treating him any differently. His chest loosens up and he starts to breathe again. He diligently takes notes and begins to regain hope for his social life.

His second class of the day is gym, so he gets the chance to talk to Scott while Finstock is shouting incoherently about teamwork. They’re playing volleyball, which he’s actually passable at. Scott also greets him with a question about how he’s feeling as Stiles maneuvers his way to be next to Scott on the court.

“You didn’t tell anyone what happened,” Stiles says.

Scott looks blank. “Uh, no? Why would I have?”

“I just – kind of expected you would,” Stiles admits.

Scott frowns a little. “Well, I didn’t,” he says, unnecessarily.

“No, I know, I noticed, trust me,” Stiles says. He takes the ball and it’s his turn to serve. They play in silence for a few minutes before he says, abruptly, “At my last school, I had a panic attack in front of some people. They, uh, they told everyone. Then it was like this big joke that my whole class was in on. They’d hide behind doors and booby trap my locker and stuff. It, uh, it got kind of bad. That’s one of the reasons why we moved.” And one of the reasons why he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, even in gym class.

Scott wrinkles his nose. “People can be such assholes,” he says, and Stiles laughs and agrees. “I mean, I won’t say that everyone in Beacon Hills can be a saint,” Scott adds. “One time Erica had a seizure in class and some jerk-off filmed it and it got passed around. But, you know, not everyone’s like that.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”

Scott waves this off, clearly thinking that he doesn’t need to be thanked for being a decent human being. Stiles shakes his head a little and devotes his attention to the game. It’s Friday, so the teachers are heaping on the weekend work. He doesn’t care too much. He has a movie to attend. He hopes the plot of the previous Fast and Furious movies aren’t particularly important, since he’s only seen two of them. Then again, from what he remembers, they weren’t exactly heavy on plot to begin with.

He doesn’t have his own car, but neither does Scott, and his mother is working, so Lydia agrees to pick them both up. He’s been a little anxious around her since the weird vision, but it hasn’t happened again, so he’s trying not to think about it.

They’re standing in front of the movie theater, waiting for Boyd and Erica, when Stiles realizes his phone isn’t in his pocket. “Shit, I must have left it in the car,” he says, patting down his pockets.

“You’re sure you didn’t leave it at Scott’s?” Lydia asks.

“No, I had it in the car, my dad texted me,” Stiles says.

“We’re going to a movie,” Isaac reminds him. “What do you need your phone for? If you text during movies, we’ll throw you over the balcony.”

“This movie theater doesn’t have a balcony,” Allison says, laughing.

“No, I just, I have to have it,” Stiles says, trying to squelch the anxiety. “My dad’s a cop, what if something happens, he needs to be able to reach me – ”

“Then let’s go get it,” Lydia says, striding back towards her car without waiting for further commentary. Stiles trots along after her, glad she’s not making a big deal out of it. Unfortunately, the place is packed on a Friday night, and they’re not very close.

“We’ve got plenty of time, slow down,” Stiles says, because she’s leaving him in the dust even though his legs are twice as long.

“I don’t want to leave those three alone for too long,” Lydia says.

Stiles glances over his shoulder at the three awkward teenagers. “Yeah, what’s up with that?” he asks.

Lydia arches her eyebrows at him like she’s thinking about asking how it’s any of his business. Then she rolls her eyes. “Allison used to date Scott. But they broke up last spring. She had – a really hard year. Her aunt died, then her mom. She just needed some space. But while she was having space, she met Isaac, and they kind of started a thing. So, now everything is super awkward. And Isaac and Scott are like, best friends – Isaac’s practically lived at Scott’s place since Isaac’s dad died last year.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of dead people,” Stiles says. Lydia gives him a withering look. “I’m just saying.”

“Well, just don’t,” Lydia says. She unlocks her car, and Stiles gropes around for the phone, finding it under the seat. “Anyway, Scott’s still got it pretty bad for Allison, Allison doesn’t know how to act around him because she feels bad that he got the impression that they would get back together once she was done dealing with her shit, and Isaac is afraid that if he touches Allison while Scott’s around, Scott will hate him forever. And sadly, nobody took my suggestion of a ménage a trois seriously.”

“Too bad,” Stiles says. “Seems to be the most logical solution.”

Lydia shakes her head. “Societal conventions ruin everything.”

Stiles laughs. “What about you, do you have a boyfriend?”

“I did last year, but . . . we lost him, too.”

“Jesus, seriously?”

“No, I’m just giving you a hard time,” Lydia says. “He moved to England to go to some fancy prep school. But we’d already broken up by then. Why, are you going to ask me out?” she adds.

“Just getting the lay of the land,” Stiles says.

“Did you leave someone behind in Missoula? Some lovely lady who’s pining for you as we speak?”

“Nope,” Stiles says. He’s never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, and never been interested in one. Up until he’d started having weird dreams about some guy named Peter, he’d started to think he was asexual. Of course, he’s not sure what it means that the only person he’s ever been attracted to is a figment of his imagination. But the repeated midnight wood probably means _something_.

Lydia tilts her head at him. “So, you don’t have a girlfriend, but you’re _not_ going to ask me out? That’s kind of a first for me, honestly. Are you gay?”

“Uh, bi,” Stiles says, “but I just don’t . . . I’m not good at stuff like that.”

Lydia gives a snort. “Join the club,” she says, and then they’ve reached the front of the movie theater. Erica and Boyd have arrived, so they head inside.

The movie is a lot of fun, if not Oscar worthy, and Stiles has a good time. They decide to go hang out and get smoothies afterwards. None of them seem to have curfews, but Stiles decides he should probably check in with his dad. It’s about nine thirty. He texts instead of calling, saying, ‘Scott etc want to go hang out, is it okay if I go?’

A minute later, his father replies ‘ok but be home by 11’ and then a minute later ‘I’m really proud of you’ which makes Stiles roll his eyes and blush furiously. Fortunately, nobody notices.

Since Lydia’s car is at the back of the lot, it borders on the woods. Stiles is about to get in when something catches in his peripheral vision. His head jerks up and he stares into the forest. There’s a shadow there, a lurking, threatening form. He takes a deep breath and ignores it. But surprisingly, Scott looks in the same direction, and a faint frown crosses his face. “What is it?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice even.

“Nothing,” Scott says quickly. He glances over at Allison and the two of them exchange a look. It’s definitely significant, but Stiles isn’t sure what it means. “Let’s get going,” Scott adds, but his cheer suddenly seems somewhat forced. Still, Stiles isn’t about to argue. What’s he going to say? ‘Do you also see the monster over there?’ That way leads to madness. Literally. So he gets into the car.

An hour of smoothies later, Lydia drops him back at the apartment. His father is still up, and he smiles when Stiles comes in. “Hey, you. Have a good time?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and yawns. “I’m beat, though. Gonna go shower and go to bed.”

“Okay,” Tom says. “See you in the morning.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The thing is, Stiles is nosy. He’s tried to pass himself off as ‘curious’ for years, but the older he got, the more he owned up to it. He’s just nosy. He likes to know things about people. In a way, this is a defense mechanism. If he knows what people are like, he might be able to stop them from hurting him. But most of it is just the pure thirst for knowledge and understanding. It’s almost academic, in a way.

Which is why he’s sitting at his laptop on Sunday afternoon, reading about the death of Kate Argent. Finding the article was easy enough. He just Googled ‘Argent + death + Beacon Hills’. Multiple articles had popped up, and he had clicked on the first one. Kate Argent had been killed in an animal attack in the woods, the first article said. But the second questioned that, and eventually a bunch of ‘animal attacks’ were determined to be the work of a serial killer.

Victoria Argent had been a victim of the same killer about a month later, which Stiles found interesting, since the other victims had seemed random. The third article about Kate Argent had the headline ‘Kate Argent posthumously cleared of arson charges’ which is an interesting sentence. He clicks on that to read that Kate Argent had been suspected in a house fire that had killed multiple people. The more he reads, the more interesting it gets. Apparently, someone on the police force had had the same idea that he had, and the serial killer’s victims had all eventually been connected as being involved with said house fire. The prime suspect was Peter Hale, one of the fire’s only three survivors.

Under ‘related content’ at the end, there’s a headline ‘Peter Hale apprehended – long nightmare at an end’ and he clicks on that.

What he sees nearly sends him falling out of his chair, because there’s the man in his dream, on his computer screen, larger than life and in full color. He looks somewhat different, of course – he’s younger, his hair is short and he’s clean shaven. But he’s still very recognizable. It’s not a mug shot, like an article about an apprehended criminal would normally have. It seems to be some family picture that’s been commandeered and cropped for the purpose.

The article is surprisingly short and light on detail. It’s mostly about what Peter has done – killed eight innocent people – and there’s very little about how or when he was apprehended. It just says that they had located his residence and found him there.

Stiles is familiar enough with police work that it strikes him as a little odd, but it’s not really what’s at the forefront of his thoughts. He’s still just staring at that picture of Peter Hale, the man from his dreams.

To a certain extent, they make more sense now. Peter is in some sort of jail, solitary confinement probably, which explains the setting for the dreams and his unpolished appearance. It’s obviously having some sort of affect on his mental state, as well. It all makes perfect sense, except for the part where Stiles is dreaming, accurately, about a serial killer that he’s never met before.

And now that he’s thinking about it, it’s not exactly a recent thing. He’s been dreaming about Peter for years. All those dreams about the fire – they aren’t his dreams. They’re _Peter’s_ dreams. The blonde woman he saw in his dreams who then abruptly stopped appearing – Kate Argent. He lets out a reedy little moan and puts his head between his knees, trying to control his breathing.

“Okay,” he says to himself. “Okay, you can handle this. You – your mind is inexplicably linked to – to some other guy. Who happens to be a serial killer. Okay.”

No, his sensible side replies. Absolutely not. This is just – some new form of psychosis. His mind is playing tricks on him like it always does. He can’t actually _recognize_ Peter. He’s just projecting the dreams onto the face he can now see.

He needs to tell somebody about this. He’s laughed off the dreams as – well, as just that. Weird dreams. But this is different. This is the kind of thing that ends with him in the psych ward. He should tell his father. He just doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know how he would explain it. There is no way to explain it. Not to anybody.

The choice gets taken from him when his father gives a light knock and pokes his head in. “You okay?” he asks, seeing the way Stiles is curled up in his chair.

“Not – not really,” Stiles chokes out, and his father sits down with him, rubs his back and talks to him quietly until the panic edges back. Stiles takes one of his Xanax because every time he opens his mouth, he can feel it start to build again.

“Okay, what happened?” Tom asks, because deconstructing the reasons behind a panic attack is always important.

“I was reading this – this article – ” Stiles gestures to his laptop.

Tom peers down at it. “Oh, yeah, one of the other deputies was telling me about some of this after I mentioned that you were getting to know Allison Argent.” He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder. “Freaked you out, huh?”

“I’ve been – dreaming about him. About Peter.”

At this, Tom frowns. “You never knew about him before reading this, though.”

“I know,” Stiles says raggedly. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, Dad, I know that, but I’ve been having dreams about some guy in, in a solitary confinement cell in prison, and as soon as I saw this picture, I recognized him. I know it doesn’t make sense.”

“Okay,” Tom says quietly. He rubs Stiles’ shoulders and says, “Hey, tell you what. I’ll see if I can find out what sort of cell he’s in. Maybe we can just – prove your dreams wrong. Would that make you feel better?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and looks over. “Pretty sure my shrink wouldn’t approve.”

Tom gives a little shrug. “You know what, I just want to do what works. I don’t really care so much what anyone else thinks about it. If it’ll make you feel better to know for a fact that you can’t have been dreaming about a guy you had never heard of before today, even though you already sort of know, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Okay.” Stiles leans on his shoulder. “Thanks, Dad.”

Tom tousles his hair. “That’s enough of that. Come watch the game with me.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. He hates sports, especially baseball, but his dad likes them, and that’s good enough for him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the Shakespeare references. ^_^

 

Stiles goes to sleep that night determined not to give Peter the time of day, either metaphorically or literally. When he ‘wakes up’ in the dream, in the hallway, he just sits down right where he is. He’s not giving into his subconscious’ weird connection to some murderer. Or to its ability to twist things around and freak him out. He’s going to sit right here in the hallway until he wakes up.

Eventually, he does, and he feels grouchy and sleep deprived and strangely cold all day long, and he’s surly towards his father and doesn’t want to talk to anyone at school. His father is used to his shifts in mood, and doesn’t comment on it. He does tell him that he looked up Peter Hale, who is currently sitting in Folsom State Prison, with a roommate, while he awaits trial.

That should make Stiles feel better, but it doesn’t, not really. It just makes things weirder. How strange is it, he wonders, that he would have preferred a genuine psychic connection to a serial killer than to find out that his mind is playing tricks on him yet again?

He’s pissed off about it when he falls asleep and pissed off about it in the dream as he sits in the hallway for what seems like an eternity. The urge to go down the hall, to see Peter, is nearly unstoppable. But he fights against it, because he’s in control of his own mind. He doesn’t need to bow down to this illness. He’ll fight to the bitter end. Even when he can hear Peter down the hall, calling for him, sounding confused and lonely, he still sits there, hating every minute of it.

The next day is no better, and he can tell that his father is concerned. With years of practice, he’s gotten pretty good at faking being okay, so he tries to distract himself with homework and video games and making chicken parmesan for dinner.

But when he falls asleep, right back into the same dream, the same _hallway_ , and hears Peter calling for him, his temper snaps. He stalks down the hall, pushes his way through the glass, and shouts, “What do you want from me?!”

Peter stares up at him, eyes marginally wide, from where he’s huddled in the corner. Then he ducks his head, so his limp hair falls in his face. “Help me,” he murmurs. “Help me.”

All the anger goes out of Stiles in a rush. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting down. “I can’t help you,” he finally says. “I can’t even help _myself_.”

Peter manages to wobble to his feet and walk over to Stiles, settling down next to him. He leans over so his head is in Stiles’ lap. Stiles looks down at him and sighs, then runs his fingers through Peter’s hair. Peter makes a little noise, a hum of appreciation.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Stiles finally says. “How can I be dreaming about a man I’ve never met?”

“Not a dream,” Peter murmurs. “Soulshare. Not a dream.”

“Soulshare?” Stiles frowns. “What’s . . . you know what, that’s a stupid question. I’m going to assume it’s exactly what it sounds like. Okay, fine. How can I have some mystical soul bond with someone I’ve never met?”

“Did, though,” Peter says. “You were young. Then you left. I waited.” He closes his eyes. “Waited for you. Now here you are.”

Stiles is glad that Peter’s talking to him, even if the information he’s imparting is somewhat unnerving. “Oh. I . . . I don’t remember that, I guess. I don’t have many memories of when I was a little kid. But, uh, I’ll take your word on it. I mean . . . I’ve been dreaming about you for a long time. I dreamed about . . . about the fire and stuff.”

Peter gives a low growl and his body tenses up, but he relaxes again when Stiles runs his hand through Peter’s hair.

“But I just don’t . . . this is just my mind playing tricks on me,” Stiles says. “None of it’s actually real. You’re probably not even real. Even if I did meet you when I was younger, how could I dream about you as an adult, as . . . as this?” He shakes his head. “It’s not real. I have to, to stop this. I just don’t know how.”

Peter sits up and is frowning at him. “Why do you think it isn’t real?” he asks, a little stilted, but the words are clearly coming more easily now.

“Because _come on_ , man, why would I – why would any of this – how could – ” Stiles bites off the words, frustrated. “Because I’m crazy, okay? Because ever since I was young, I’ve seen things that aren’t real, dreamed about things that aren’t real. Why would this be any different?”

“It isn’t,” Peter says. “It’s all real. All of it.”

“No,” Stiles says.

“Yes,” Peter replies, looking at him steadily.

“No!” Stiles shoves him away and hauls himself to his feet. “Don’t you say that, don’t you fucking _dare_. You – you have no idea how hard any of this has been, what it’s like to doubt _everything_ you see or hear or, or _think_! You’re just my fucked up mind playing tricks on me, and I just – I don’t understand why my own God damned brain hates me so much, but you can just take that right the fuck outside and – and don’t ever talk to me again. I don’t want to dream about you anymore, I don’t want to share your fucking soul, I don’t – I don’t want any of this! Just leave me alone!”

Peter is still just looking at him. “I can’t,” he finally says. “I need you.”

“Of course you do!” Stiles laughs bitterly and sinks back to the floor. “I’m not sure what’s crazier; the idea that my insane subconscious needs my help, or the idea that the serial killer in jail needs my help. Where do I even start with that? My dad looked you up, you know. So I know that you’re in Folsom, I know that it’s not anything like this.”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s all a lie. They erased me. Put me in this place.” He waves a hand. “You’re the only one who can help me. And then, once I’m out of here, I can help you.”

Stiles looks up at him, eyes prickling with tears. He’s not going to ask. God damn it, he’s not. He doesn’t want to know and he’s not going to ask. “How?”

Peter leans in. His lips brush over Stiles’, sending a shiver through him. “It’s all real, Stiles,” he whispers, and then Stiles wakes up, tangled in his sheets and drenched with sweat. He rolls over onto his side and curls up there, shaking, and can’t fall back to sleep for the rest of the night.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles can’t go more than two minutes without thinking of Peter’s mouth against his, of Peter saying ‘it’s all real’ like he has any idea what he’s talking about it.

The thing is, Stiles isn’t an idiot, and he also reads a lot of fantasy and paranormal fiction. Of _course_ it’s crossed his mind before that he’s some sort of special person who can just see things that other people can’t see. Of _course_ he’s considered the possibility that the monsters are real. There had been a phase while he was thirteen where he had clung to that belief like it was a life preserver and he was adrift in the ocean.

But the problem was, every time he tried that, the shrinks just frowned more and his dad just looked more tired. The phrase ‘classic delusion of grandeur’ was used at least once or twice. And the older he got, the more he understood how crazy it sounded, believing himself to be ‘special’. So he let it go, because holding onto it gradually became impossible.

Besides, there had never been any evidence that supported it. When he was fourteen, he had been keeping a journal – at his therapist’s instruction – of everything he saw. So it was easy to determine that old Mrs. Jones who looked like a monster was really a sweet lady with sixteen grandchildren who made amazing blueberry muffins. It was easy to verify that his English teacher, who sometimes looked like a leering zombie, loved his wife and treated everyone with respect and didn’t even have a parking ticket.

So he let go, let go of that childish delusion that he was the special one, and if anything it made his life easier. Just acknowledge that the monsters aren’t real, that his mind has crossed wires and plays tricks on him, and then he can ignore what he sees. He doesn’t have to worry about it. If there’s some murderous monster lurking in the woods, well, that’s got nothing to do with him.

And if there’s a serial killer rotting in Folsom, that _definitely_ isn’t his problem. Why would he care what happens to him? There’s nothing special about him, no psychic connection to some man who needs his help. The Peter in his mind isn’t real, and with that in mind, he tells his psychiatrist that he’s been having a lot of trouble sleeping since the move, and asks if he can get some help. He doesn’t detail the dreams, just talks about them like they’re his standard nightmares.

The psychiatrist, who has apparently had no interest in reading the inch thick stack of medical records that they moved from Missoula, readily agrees. He writes Stiles a prescription for Ambien and tells him to make sure he doesn’t mix it with alcohol. Stiles reminds him that he’s only seventeen, and the doctor asks, “Do you think I was born yesterday?” Stiles grants him some grudging respect.

He’s taken Ambien before, for a while before the panic attack at school that had ruined his life, and he knows that it drags him down so hard that he never remembers his dreams afterwards. So the imaginary Peter can visit his dreams all he wants, as long as Stiles doesn’t have to deal with it the next morning.

The only problem is, he has a tendency to feel a little groggy and stoned the next morning until he’s gotten a few good cups of coffee into him (and occasionally an extra Adderall). That’s why he had stopped taking it in Missoula. His grades had really started to slide in his first two classes of the day. Fortunately, Beacon Hills High has rotating classes, so instead of a dramatic slump in two of his classes, he’ll have a mild slump in all of them. He can handle that.

So he’s zoning his way through history, taking notes that are mostly gibberish, when he looks over at Scott and sees that he looks like he’s been beaten again. But it’s not just physical injuries. Somehow, without knowing how, he realizes that what he’s seeing is Scott’s soul. That’s what’s been battered and bruised. It gives the impression that Scott has stitched it back together, painstakingly, over and over again. He thinks about how kind Scott has been to him, and wonders if any of that comes from experience.

He manages to claw his way through the first part of the day, and at lunch everyone is talking about sports so he glazes through that, too, while he drinks a few extra cups of coffee.

At the end of the day, he’s in his English class when the teacher decides to assign a group project. Stiles hates group projects, especially when he’s new in a class. They’ve been doing the dreaded Shakespeare unit, and she tells them to choose a Shakespeare play and then re-imagine it in a modern setting. “Groups of four!” she tells the class. Stiles glances around and hunches his shoulders, wishing that he shared English with Scott, who would undoubtedly yank him on board the friendship train. He doesn’t know any of the others as well, clearly can’t rely on them to –

“Stiles, over here!” a voice calls, and he blinks over to see Allison waving at him, her cheerful smile plastered on her face. He points at himself uncertainly, like she might be talking to the _other_ Stiles in their class. She beckons him over, so he grabs his bag and heads to the other side of the classroom, where she’s sitting with Lydia and Isaac.

“You’re in luck; Lydia is the smartest person in the school,” Isaac tells him.

Lydia gives a haughty sniff. “That doesn’t mean I’ll do all the work,” she says.

“No, you’ll just tell us what work to do,” Allison says, laughing. “What play do you want to do? Taming of the Shrew?”

“Way overdone,” Lydia says. “They made a movie of it, for crying out loud. No. We will do Twelfth Night; Or, What You Will.”

“Okay, which?” Isaac asks.

Lydia gives him a disappointed look. “That’s the name of the play,” she says.

“I . . .” Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it. Lydia gives him an expectant look. “I hate the Malvolio subplot,” he says, firming up his backbone. “It’s fucking awful.”

“I admit, it’s a nasty thing to do, but think of how it could be modernized,” Lydia says. “We could change it into a story about cyberbullying.”

“Yeah, uh . . .” Stiles decides to take a leap of faith. “As the person in this group who has actually been cyberbullied, I’m really not down with that. Not unless we portray the people doing it as the assholes they actually are, instead of making it all hilariously funny.”

“Why don’t we do Romeo and Juliet?” Allison jumps in. “But we could do it like, instead of two feuding families, we could make Romeo a girl, and have it be about homophobia.”

“That would work,” Lydia says, and they start talking about that, and thankfully, the subject of cyberbullying is dropped. They only have to act out one scene and then write a paper on how they imagine the rest of the story would change, and they have a week to get it done. They agree to meet on Friday after school, at Lydia’s place. “I can give you a ride, Stiles,” Lydia adds, and he nods and thanks her.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“I see that you asked Dr. Melcher for a prescription for Ambien,” Morrell says, less than two minutes after Stiles has sat down across from her.

Stiles responds with a shrug. “I wasn’t sleeping well.”

“Insomnia? Or nightmares?”

“Just weird dreams,” Stiles says. He’s not about to tell this lady about the fact that he’s repeatedly dreaming about a serial killer he’s never met. “I don’t really want to talk about them. Dream analysis is bullshit anyway.”

“Well, yes and no,” Morrell says. “While I definitely agree that most dreams are just the mind tossing a bunch of ingredients together at random, when you have recurring dreams, that’s usually indicative of some larger problem that your mind is trying to solve.”

“I didn’t say I was having recurring dreams.”

“Okay. But are you?” Morrell asks. Stiles glares at her. “I ask because you’ve had bad dreams or nightmares for a long time now, but this is the first time you’ve asked for a prescription for Ambien.”

“No it isn’t,” Stiles says. “I took it for a while when I was fifteen.”

“Yes, but then it was at the doctor’s recommendation, not at your request,” Morrell says.

Stiles makes a mental note that even if Dr. Melcher hadn’t cared enough to read the inch thick stack of records that had come with him, Morrell clearly had. He’s not sure if he’s impressed or annoyed. “Okay, yes. I’ve been having repeated dreams about a prison full of monsters. They’re freaky, and I want to avoid them.”

“What do you think they mean?”

“That I have a mental disorder.”

Morrell smiles slightly and doesn’t rise to his baiting. “Well, a prison might symbolize that you feel trapped. Do you?”

Stiles shrugs. “No more than usual. Anyway, I’m on the outside of the prison, so I doubt that’s what it means.”

“So what is it about them that makes them worse from your usual nightmares?” Morrell asks. “Enough that you would ask for medication, even when your history suggests that you strongly dislike needing it?”

Morrell is smarter than she looks, and Stiles is really starting to intensely dislike her. But he thinks of all the times his father has encouraged him to share with his shrinks, that they can’t help him if he doesn’t give them anything. “There’s a guy. In the dreams. He knows me. And he . . . he was trying to convince me that my, you know, my hallucinations are real.” Stiles sees Morrell about to open her mouth and says, “I know what the voices in my head mean, and I know when they need to just shut the fuck up. So I decided to try some Ambien to see if I could break the cycle and stop having the dream.”

“What’s he like? The man you’re dreaming about.”

“He’s just, you know, a guy,” Stiles says, because the last thing he needs is her thinking he’s got some psychosexual disorder.

“Is he someone you know?”

“No,” Stiles says, and repeats, “he’s just a guy.”

“Scientists think that we only dream about people we know,” Morrell tells him. “That we can’t actually create people in dreams.”

“Bully for them,” Stiles says. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” Morrell says. “Have you had any hallucinations lately?”

“No,” Stiles lies.

“Panic attacks?”

“Just one. I did some deep breathing and calmed down. It was fine. I didn’t even need to take a Xanax.”

“Okay.” Morrell makes a note. “Do you have any fun plans for the weekend?”

Stiles gives her a suspicious look, but then says, “I’m going over to a friend’s house on Friday night. For a school project.”

“Are you looking forward to it?”

“Yeah, I guess. The people here seem nice.”

Morrell talks to him for a while about his classmates and his schedule and his classes. Stiles is okay with that. He doesn’t offer up a ton of information, but he doesn’t hate talking about it. It’s not until the end of the session that she brings up the dreams again. “How long do you plan on taking the Ambien?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. He gave me twenty pills, so, I guess I’ll see how I feel when it runs low.”

“You said you wanted to ‘break the cycle’. How long do you think that’ll take?”

“Geez, I don’t know. I guess I’ll just see how it goes.”

“What if you keep having them?” Morrell asks. “You seem concerned that whoever this mystery man is, he might induce some sort of psychotic episode by convincing you that your hallucinations are real.”

Stiles glares at her. “That would be my concern, yes. So I guess if I keep having them, I’ll tell my _real_ doctor about them, and see what he has to say.” He stands up, swings his backpack over his shoulder, and leaves the room.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles dislikes the Argent house from the moment he steps inside. His hallucinations are usually confined to visual things, but every once in a while, there’s a place that comes with what can only be described as an emotional hallucination. The Argent house is like that. Even though it’s open and clean, it feels dark and musty.

In a way, that makes sense. Stiles remembers that Allison’s aunt and mother had died within the last year. But something else strikes him as odd, which is that there are no pictures of said aunt or mother anywhere. There are a few photographs of Allison on the mantle, but not of anybody else. Stiles can remember the dark months after his mother’s death, when they still had pictures of her up everywhere. He hated looking at them but never would have been able to take them down. That didn’t change until they moved to Denver, when they redecorated a little, and most of them wound up in his father’s room.

Still, it isn’t the sort of thing he can ask about, so he settles down at the kitchen table with the three other teenagers and they talk about the ongoing saga of Romeo and Juliet. Lydia is full of ideas on how modern society would change the story. Isaac says he’s only interested if Juliet texts Romeo to say ‘wtf I’m not dead!’, which Stiles agrees would make a much better story.

They’ve just started drafting out the scene they want to act out and deciding who’s going to play who (neither Stiles nor Isaac are interested in a major role, so Allison and Lydia will be playing the star-crossed lovers), when the front door opens and two men walk into the room.

Stiles recognizes Chris Argent from the one photograph of Allison with her father on the mantelpiece, and he looks completely normal except for one thing: he has a noose around his neck. It’s made out of old, frayed rope, and stands out against his crisp V-neck shirt and his jeans. He fiddles with it, itching at his neck, like he can feel it but doesn’t realize it’s there. Stiles watches this in detached interest, trying to remember the significance of the Hanged Man in tarot. Is it betrayal? Change? Indecision? Either way, something is eating Chris Argent alive.

But he forgets about that when the other man enters the room, because he’s absolutely gruesome. He looks like every zombie that Stiles has seen on television, even _smells_ that way, with his flesh rotting off his bones, clothes falling away in pieces, face fixed in a rictus grin. Stiles shudders and tightly closes his eyes, willing the vision away. It’s not real. It’s not real. None of it is real.

“Hey, Grandpa,” Allison says, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm in her voice, and when Stiles opens his eyes again it’s just an old man with a passing resemblance to John McCain. “Hey, Dad,” she adds, a little warmer.

“Hey, Mr. Argent,” Lydia adds, with a flirtatious smile.

“Hi, Lydia, Isaac.” Chris opens the fridge and takes out a beer. His gaze falls on Stiles. The noose is gone. “New friend?”

“Yeah, this is Stiles,” Allison says. “He just moved here from Montana a few weeks ago.”

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles says.

“Mm,” Chris says, with a total lack of interest. “I’ll be working down in the basement, Allison,” he adds, and walks back out of the room.

Gerard, for his part, gives the group a smile. “So what are you kids up to?”

“Just an English project,” Allison says. “Shakespeare.”

“Ah, the Bard,” Gerard says. “What play?”

“Romeo and Juliet,” Lydia says.

“Hm,” Gerard says, his gaze lingering on Allison for a few moments. “Well, you kids have fun,” he says, and then heads in the same direction Chris had gone.

Stiles is frowning after him, but manages to resist the urge to ask what that was about. Surprisingly, Allison sees his confused expression and says, “My, uh . . . my mom didn’t like Scott very much. I guess we sort of had a Romeo and Juliet thing going on. Grandpa’s probably just worried about me, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, blinking, then a second later, “Oh,” as he understands. Allison’s mother hadn’t liked Scott, and then Allison’s mother had been killed. Stiles guesses that probably had a lot to do with why Allison broke up with Scott; he can see how she would have felt like she was betraying her dead mother’s wishes if she kept dating him.

That obviously isn’t something that anyone wants to spend a lot of time talking about, so Lydia jumps right back in with more dialogue changes, and before long, it seems like everyone has forgotten all about it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Sometimes, Stiles has to wonder about the relationship between his ADD and his other psychiatric problems. He thinks that he would be a lot better off if he was able to just let things go. But he can’t. Once there’s a question he wants answered, he gets stuck on it, hyperfocuses, and can’t settle down until he knows the answer. It makes him physically twitchy. It’s almost a sort of pain.

That’s why he’s sitting at the police station, chilling at his father’s desk and trying to guess his password. He just wants to read a little bit about the Argent family, that’s all. Real files, not the stuff that was reported to the media. He had stopped by to give his father his lunch – his father ‘forgot’ the lunch Stiles packed him – and found that he was out in the field. He sat down to wait and then the idea occurred to him.

He thought he knew his father’s password – it hadn’t changed in years – but the usual guess of ‘Claud1a’ hadn’t worked. Sometimes he thinks it’s funny that his father clearly thinks that his dead wife’s name is a really tough password to crack, as long as he put in a one instead of an ‘i’. Stiles is wondering if he finally learned better.

Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe his father is really, finally, moving on from Claudia’s death. Stiles chews on his lower lip and stares at the logon screen. Even trying other passwords seems like a betrayal. His father wouldn’t use Melissa’s name, would he? They had only been on one date. He huffs a little and tries it anyway. Mel1ssa, because his father is a creature of habit. He’s eaten the same breakfast for ten years, does his loads of laundry in the same order, gets the exact same thing every time they go to McDonald’s.

Mel1ssa doesn’t work either, which is something of a relief, and after another minute, Stiles realizes he’s an idiot. Maybe his father is moving on. Maybe he’s not. Either way, Claudia isn’t the most important person in his life. He types in ‘St1les’. There’s a beep and then the screen changes.

In a way, he’s proud of his father (and to be fair, St1les would be much harder to guess than Claud1a, since it isn’t his real name), but he also feels guilty. It always bothers him, how much time and effort his father is forced to devote to him, because of his illness. And here he is, perseverating on something because of his illness again. It’s almost enough to make him get up and walk away from the computer.

Almost, but not quite, because there are few things Stiles hates more than a mystery he can’t solve. He types ‘Argent’ into the search function and starts to read.

The first thing he notices is that Victoria Argent’s death was very different from the others, and at least one detective honestly thought it hadn’t been related. Whereas most of the deaths looked like they had been caused by some wild animal, Victoria’s had been quick and clean, a single, excellently administered, knife wound to the chest. And she had been found in her home, unlike the rest of the victims, who were almost entirely found outside except for one man who had been killed in a video store.

The second thing he finds is the intriguing case of Kate Argent and the Hale house fire. He remembers the headline about Kate being exonerated, which is why he’s immediately fascinated to see that she was, quite obviously, guilty. There had been corroborating evidence from some chemistry teacher about him helping her cook up some sort of difficult-to-detect accelerant, and the police had been able to positively identify her with his help. They hadn’t been able to determine a motive, but the evidence had been there. But after she died, they seemed to just drop it.

Stiles chews on his lower lip, considering this. He supposed that after she was dead, it didn’t really matter. But if Peter Hale had gone after the people who had murdered his family – and a quick review of the arson case reveals that that was indeed exactly who he had gone after – why sweep it under the rug? Surely, whoever Peter’s lawyer was would want to use that to gain sympathy from the jury.

Court documents are public, so out of curiosity, Stiles went to see what had happened so far with the case of the State of California versus Peter Hale. Much to his surprise, nothing comes up. There are no court documents with Peter Hale’s name in them anywhere. Even if he had entered a plea, there should have been _something_.

_“They erased me,”_ Peter’s voice says in Stiles’ memory. _“Put me in this place.”_

The question was, who the hell was ‘they’?

Stiles pulls Peter’s file back up, wondering who had been responsible for his capture, since the newspaper article on it had been so light on detail. But even the police files were very vague. Peter had been apprehended in his home by Gerard Argent and –

Scott McCall.

Stiles stares at the computer screen, jaw slightly ajar. He can see why Gerard might have been involved – the women killed had been his daughter and (possibly) his daughter-in-law. But Scott? What the hell did Scott have to do with any of this?

Stiles thinks of the visions of Scott, bloody and broken, the way he looks at Allison and anxiously awaits her texts, the way he looks at the forest like there are things there that can’t be trusted.

What the hell is going on?

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

“Let’s say I believe you,” Stiles says, pacing around Peter’s prison cell while the other man is curled up in the corner. “That it’s all real, that I’m some kind of, I don’t know, wizard. Let’s even really stretch and say that I want to help you,” he adds, and something like a smile flits across Peter’s face. “First you have to help me. You have to fucking _talk_ to me.”

Now Peter grimaces. He closes his eyes for a long minute as if trying to center himself. “I haven’t . . . had much company . . . for a long time,” he says. “It can be . . . difficult for me.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Stiles says. “But take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care about your grammar, but you’ve gotta give me something, because everything I find just makes me more confused. Like, to start, where are you?”

“Bad start.” Peter’s eyes are still closed. “Don’t know.”

“Okay, well, it’s obviously a prison of some sort,” Stiles says, looking around dubiously. “And you don’t seem . . . great. You know? Some days you’re worse than others. I guess that probably relates back to what’s happening in real life?” he adds, and Peter nods. “Are they, you know, hurting you?”

“Some. Drugging me.” Peter’s lip curls. “Wolfsbane.”

“So how did you end up here? You said they erased you.”

“I can’t . . .” Peter struggles for words.

“Wait, wait,” Stiles says. “Let me tell you what I’ve figured out, and you can tell me if I’m right. So, Kate Argent killed your family, right?” he asks, and Peter looks somewhat startled. “In a fire. And you were really badly hurt and wound up in the hospital for a long time. Then you went after her and killed a bunch of people involved, including your niece, which what the fuck by the way – and you killed Kate Argent. But a few weeks later you got caught, by Kate’s father Gerard, and he stuck you in here.”

“How do you . . . know all that?” Peter asks.

“Dude, I read,” Stiles says. “When a crazy dude shows up in my dreams and won’t fucking go away, I start to ask questions. Most of this stuff was in the news, and what I couldn’t find there I got from the police documents. My dad is one of the deputies. But there’s stuff I don’t know, like, why did Kate kill your family?”

Peter’s lip curls again. “Because she was a psychopath,” he says, “and a werewolf hunter.”

“And you’re a werewolf,” Stiles says, just to be clear. Peter gives him a look. “Why did you kill your niece?”

A breath huffs out of Peter. “Needed her power. To heal. Couldn’t . . . couldn’t find another way.”

“Okay, we’re gonna . . . we’re gonna have to talk about that later,” Stiles says, filing it away. “So Kate and her family are werewolf hunters, so why are you in prison instead of dead?”

“Wants . . .” Peter snarls, fighting for composure. “Wants me to give him the Bite. He’s dying.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “That makes sense. He looked like a zombie when I saw him, like a rotting body. That’s why he looked like that.”

Peter nods. “He wants me to turn him. Then he’ll kill me. Be an alpha. But I won’t. I don’t care how long I’m in here.”

“Yeah, we won’t let that happen,” Stiles says, with confidence that he doesn’t feel at all. “What about Victoria? Why was her death so different?”

Peter opens one eye and snarls. “I didn’t kill Victoria. Bit her. By accident.”

“Accident?” Stiles asks, feeling skeptical.

Peter snarls at him again. “I attacked her on purpose, but bit her by accident. She didn’t want to be a werewolf, so she killed herself before the change could set in.”

“Whoa.” Stiles mentally reels at that news. Did Allison know that? Did _anybody_ know that? It would explain why things had been so different, why she had been found in her own home. “Are you sure?”

“Almost.” Peter looks tired. “Either she killed herself, or Gerard killed her.”

Stiles thinks of the noose around Chris Argent’s neck. Then he lets out a breath. Now for the real questions. “Why can you talk to me like this? I mean, you said it wasn’t a dream. That it was a soulshare. Does that mean we’re psychically connected?”

Peter’s head bobs in another nod.

“How can I be connected to someone I’ve never met?”

“We have met,” Peter says. “Long time ago. Before the fire.” He pats the floor next to him, and Stiles finally stops pacing and sits down. “You were young. Six, maybe seven. Out on the preserve with your mother. And I looked at you and I knew. We always know. Scent, maybe.” He shakes his head and says, “It was a little . . . unnerving. You were so young. I knew I would have to wait. Then you left. You were gone a long time. But I knew you would eventually come back. And here you are.”

“Even when I was in Colorado, I still dreamed about you,” Stiles admits. “I dreamed about the fire. But, uh, you might have to wait a little longer. I mean, I don’t turn eighteen for another six months, if that’s what you were waiting for.”

“I can wait,” Peter murmurs, in a way that makes Stiles go sort of squirmy. Then he modifies, “I can wait for that. But I can’t wait . . . to get out of here.”

“I don’t know how I can help you,” Stiles says.

“You’re already helping,” Peter says. “Ask questions. Watch the Argents. Get close to them. They’ll lead you to me.”

“You want me to spy on the psycho werewolf hunters for you?” Stiles asks skeptically.

Peter’s mouth twists in what’s almost a smirk. “Aren’t you going to anyway?”

Stiles has to admit that he has a point. “Yeah, maybe. What about . . . how is Scott involved in this?”

At this, Peter gives another low snarl. “He’s a traitor. He betrayed me. Helped Gerard capture me. He and the Argent girl. They helped him.”

“Okay, but . . .” Stiles is at a loss for a minute. “You saying he betrayed you makes it sound like he owed you some sort of loyalty in the first place. Did he?”

“I did bad things,” Peter says. “I won’t lie. I turned him. Shouldn’t have. Tried to force him to help me. But I paid for that. I saved his life, risked my own to do it, when Victoria Argent had him captured. That’s when I bit her. I tried to help him. We were even. And then he told me . . .” Peter’s shoulders heave for breath. “Told me he could help me. Tricked me. Shouldn’t have been able to trick me, but . . . he didn’t seem the type to lie. So I believed him, and it landed me in here.”

Stiles looks away. He can’t believe that. Not of Scott. Scott has been nothing but kind to him, and understanding, since he arrived. Scott is the best friend he’s ever had.

“You don’t believe me,” Peter says, watching him. “I know. Like I said. He doesn’t seem the type. But watch him. I bet he ducks questions. Tries to keep you from seeing things. Tells you not to worry. That’s what he’ll do. But don’t trust him.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll watch him,” Stiles says, feeling uncomfortable. “Maybe I can get some answers. Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing.”

“Don’t tell him you can talk to me,” Peter says. Stiles hesitates, and Peter snarls. “Don’t even think about it. If he tells Gerard, he’ll kill me, cancer or no cancer. If he thinks I have even a ghost of a chance of getting out of here, he’ll kill me.”

“I won’t tell him,” Stiles says. He looks away, suddenly tired. “He would just think I was crazy, anyway.”

“Maybe,” Peter says. “Maybe not.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles isn’t exactly comfortable with his new missions, but he’s determined that, one way or another, he’s going to get Peter Hale out of his head. And one thing is definitely true: Kate Argent killed the Hale family. Whether she did it because she’s actually a werewolf hunter, he doesn’t know. Maybe that’s just another delusion. But the police files were clear. And yet, she was exonerated. That means that someone in the police force is on the take. That makes sense, too, because someone must have mocked up the files that said Peter had been transferred to Folsom, and released him to . . . wherever he was.

As much as he would love to dump that little tangle in his father’s lap, he doesn’t think it would be a good idea. He’s teetering on the edge of sounding crazy, and he definitely doesn’t want his father to know that he’s been snooping in his files. That means he’s going to have to get creative.

The person most likely to know anything about that is Allison, but she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and he doesn’t blame her. Her mother’s death is another enormous tangle. If Peter or the voices in his dreams or whatever are even remotely correct about what really happened to Victoria Argent, then Scott is hiding something huge from Allison. Stiles can see why, but he thinks it would be better for Allison to know the truth.

But first he needs to know what she _does_ know, because for all he knows, Scott told her all about it. Fortunately, he has an easy excuse to talk with her about it. Romeo and Juliet. Lydia never does anything halfway, he’s been told, and has insisted on having actual costumes and set design instead of just a handful of lines. Stiles volunteers to go look for some of the props she wants, since she’s focused on the clothing, and then since he doesn’t have a car, Allison agrees to drive.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” he asks, as they pull up to a thrift store.

“Sure,” she says, with that gorgeous smile of hers.

“It’s kind of personal, so feel free to tell me it’s none of my business,” Stiles says. “It’s just, when you were talking about how your mom didn’t really like Scott, and I guess I was wondering if that’s why you broke up with him.”

Everything in Allison goes tight and unhappy. She lets out a breath and says, “It . . . it’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Stiles says. “I mean, relationships are complicated at the best of times. But it’s just, I see the way you still look at him. And he’s my friend, you know? He’s probably the best friend I’ve ever had, which is kind of sad since I’ve only been here a month, but, uh, that’s just the way my life has gone. I want to help if I can.”

“I just . . . couldn’t even look at him for a while,” Allison says. “After my mom died.”

“I lost my mom when I was nine,” Stiles says, “so I know how much it hurts. Even though it wasn’t anywhere near as, you know, traumatic and sudden for me. But I think your mom would want you to be happy.”

At this, Allison gives a dry smile. “You did not know my mother.”

Stiles isn’t sure what to say to that. “She wouldn’t want you to be happy?”

“Well, she would, but . . . she was very big on what was best for me.”

“Of course she was,” Stiles says. “She was your mother. But, you know, she was also human. So she might have thought she knew what was best for you, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she was right.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Allison says. “I’m with Isaac now. And I really like Isaac. I don’t want to ruin what I have with him.”

“Yeah, that’s totally fair,” Stiles says, “and I’m not a love guru or anything. Isaac seems like a swell guy. But I can’t help but think about how they taught us in kindergarten about how sharing is important.”

Allison sets down the vase she’s looking at and says, “I’m pretty sure that doesn’t apply to girlfriends.”

“Why not?” Stiles asks, without missing a beat. “Look. You obviously really like both Scott and Isaac. What if you didn’t have to choose between them?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Allison says.

“Doesn’t it? It’s not like they’re super possessive alpha males,” Stiles says. “You can tell by the way they practically trip over each other trying not to hurt each other’s feelings over the whole thing. Have you actually _talked_ to them about this? I mean, just said, ‘I really like you both and I don’t want to have to choose’ to see what they say?”

“It . . . it doesn’t _work_ like that,” Allison says. “You can’t love two people equally.”

“You can’t?” Stiles asks, genuinely startled. “Okay. Who do you love more? Your mom or your dad?”

Allison blinks at him. “That – that’s different.”

“How is that different?”

“It’s just – it’s just _different_.”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t see how.”

Allison is quiet for a long minute. She seems to be thinking things over, so Stiles lets her, picking out a few things to put in their basket, wondering why they need any of this stuff. It’s best not to question Lydia’s artistic vision, or so he’s been told.

“If we’re going to be honest,” Stiles finally says, “I think Scott and Isaac would leap at the chance to share you. No more tiptoeing around each other’s feelings. And as a plus, then they could just make out with each other, too, and stop pining after each other as much as they’re pining after you.”

Allison’s eyes glaze over.

“Just do me a favor, okay?” Stiles says. “Go home and google ‘healthy polyamory’. I think it’ll be a revelation. Now tell me if you think this is the kind of candlestick Lydia wants.”

Apart from the fact that he’s turning into some kind of relationship advice dispenser, he ends the conversation pretty sure that Allison has absolutely no idea that her mother tried to kill Scott, or that she then killed herself. Stiles isn’t about to tell her, but he needs to think about what to do about it in the long run.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It takes Stiles a few days to realize it, but Scott gave him one really easy opening when it came to asking questions. He waits until the situation is casual – they’re playing video games at Scott’s house – when he says, “Hey, question for you.”

“Shoot,” Scott says, doing just that in the game.

“So when I was embarrassing myself by having an enormous panic attack, you said that you _used to_ have asthma. How does that work? I didn’t think there was a cure for that yet.”

Scott freezes for a moment and misses an easy shot in the game. “Oh, I, I just phrased it badly, I guess. I mean, I still have asthma. It’s just not anywhere near as bad as it used to be. You know, there’s better medication for it now.”

“Oh, gotcha,” Stiles says. “I thought I had stumbled on some walking medical miracle.”

Scott gives an awkward laugh. “No, sorry.”

It’s a dead end, really, but it _does_ support some of what Peter had said. Scott doesn’t want to talk about it, and his attitude when caught makes it clear that he had said something he wished he hadn’t. Stiles mulls that over for a few days, thinking about what he wants to approach next. He knows that Peter had told him to go after the Argents, but he just can’t quite bring himself to do that. Every time he thinks about it, he thinks of that musty darkness in their house, of the frayed rope around Chris’ neck, of Gerard’s flesh rotting off his bones.

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he had agreed to tell his father about things he saw. He’s not sure of exactly how that holds up in light of the thing where he’s started half-believing in werewolves and that he’s psychically connected to a serial killer, but a promise is a promise. So the next time they’re sitting down at dinner, he says, “I, uh, I met Allison’s grandfather the other day.”

“Yeah?” Tom says, adding way too much salt to his mashed potatoes and earning himself a glare. “I’ve actually met him a couple times. He seems tight with the sheriff.”

“Huh,” Stiles says, thinking about the fact that Kate had been exonerated despite her obvious guilt, the fact that somebody had agreed to falsify Peter’s records and remand him to . . . somewhere that clearly wasn’t Folsom. He’ll have to look into that. “Well, he, uh, he looked like a zombie. It was kind of freaksome.”

“He did?” Tom appears momentarily startled, which startles Stiles. It was a fairly tame hallucination, all things considered.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Just kind of gross and rotting. Walking dead. Et cetera. It went away after a minute.”

“Okay,” Tom says.

Stiles wonders if his father knows about Gerard’s cancer. That would explain why he was taken off guard by the strangely appropriate hallucination. But he can’t think of a way to ask.

There isn’t a _lot_ of research he can do in regards to Gerard and the sheriff, but he manages to find a few things. The first is that the sheriff and Gerard Argent went to the same college. The second is that the sheriff is up for re-election in the fall, after a very close campaign four years previous. And the third is that the Argent family obviously has a lot of money. Separately, those facts don’t mean a lot, but together, they paint a fairly compelling picture. Gerard was going to endorse the sheriff in his next campaign and probably provide considerable financial support, in exchange for his help with Kate’s exoneration and Peter’s transfer.

Stiles chews on this for a long time. There isn’t anything he can do about it, but his father, on the other hand – if someone were to anonymously tip him off that the sheriff was corrupt, that Kate Argent was guilty – he could get something done about it. That might lead him to Peter, wherever Peter is.

The problem is, Stiles doesn’t want his father involved in this. It’s too dangerous. Stiles still has no firm idea of what’s real and what isn’t, but one thing is one hundred percent certain: people are dead. He can’t risk his father’s life, no matter what else is going on. So he’ll have to make his own inquiries.

But thinking about it gives him an idea for what to say to Scott. He waits until a few days later, when both their parents are absent (on a second date, which has Stiles mentally cheering). The two of them are hanging out at Stiles’ apartment, and Stiles is making some food. “Hey, you want to hear something crazy?” he asks, and obviously Scott does. “It’s a huge secret, though. You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“My lips are sealed,” Scott says.

“I mean it. This is something my dad told me, and if anyone finds out he talked about it, he could get in trouble.”

“I won’t tell, I promise,” Scott says earnestly.

Stiles glances around for effect, then leans over the table and talks quietly. “So my dad got this tip that the sheriff is accepting bribes.”

“No way,” Scott says, eyes going wide.

“Yeah. I guess that whole thing with Allison’s aunt – please don’t tell her I ever said any of this – being declared innocent? Was because he was bribed to do that. There was a lot of evidence that she was guilty.”

The response is fascinating, because it’s not verbal. It’s visual, a _vision_ , though of course it could just be his mind playing tricks on him. But wounds start to open up on Scott’s face and neck, old scars that somehow hadn’t been there before, and a patch of red starts soaking through his shirt, like he’s got a broken heart. Stiles blinks and then it’s gone, and Scott says, “Oh, uh . . . most people around here know that, actually. That she was guilty.”

That gives Stiles pause. “What, they do?”

Scott nods. “I mean, the whole thing with Peter Hale was a pretty big deal, right? And pretty much all the articles about it where people speculating that he was going after whoever had started the fire. After Kate was killed, a few of them put it together.”

“Why would they bother to exonerate her, then?” Stiles wonders aloud.

He doesn’t expect Scott to have an answer, but Scott does. “Because Mr. Argent, Allison’s dad, works with law enforcement a lot. He sells guns and stuff. And I think they were worried that the scandal would hurt his business. So they got the sheriff to exonerate her because, I guess, at that point what did it matter? She was dead.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Stiles says. “I don’t know, though, doesn’t it matter to the survivors of the fire? To uh, Peter, and . . . whatever the other name was?”

“Derek,” Scott supplies automatically. “He said he didn’t care. That wasn’t long before he left town anyway. And I guess nobody asked Peter what he thought. I mean, he had killed her, so . . .”

“I get it,” Stiles says. “And it’s kind of a good point. It’s not like Allison’s dad should have to suffer for what his sister did.”

Scott nods. “And I think a lot of people felt sorry for him, I mean . . . given what happened.”

Stiles frowns. “Why did Peter kill Allison’s mother, though? That was after Kate’s death, right?”

Scott hunches his shoulders, seeming to shrink. “Who knows? He was crazy.”

Since he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, Stiles says, “Dude, I’m sorry. I’m just nosy. It must have been really awful to live through.”

Scott picks at the cuffs of his shirt. “It . . . changed Allison a lot,” he says. “She was just really upbeat and happy before that, but afterwards . . .”

“How did they finally catch Peter?” Stiles asks, feigning the belief that this might be a better topic.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Scott says. “I guess they just figured out where he lived and busted in.”

That’s a lie, and Stiles knows it. Not even from what Peter had said, but what he himself had read in the official police report.

Scott is lying to him.

Just like Peter had said he would.

Stiles lies awake a long time that night, thinking about everything that Peter had said. Despite the insanity of it all, it seems like there was so much of it he was able to verify. He thinks of Peter saying ‘it’s all real’ and the feeling of Peter’s lips brushing over the top of his ear. He winds up jerking off thinking about that, which probably means there’s something wrong with him (or more than usual, at least).

He’s surprised when Lydia finds him at school the next day, before classes can start, and drags him aside. “What did you say to Allison?” she asks.

“What?” he asks, blinking at her. Then he wonders if Scott had talked to her about the whole thing with Kate. “I don’t know. Is she upset?”

“Well, not exactly,” Lydia says. “But she’s seemed kind of moody lately, and she doesn’t want to talk to me about it.”

Stiles chews on his lip. “I might have suggested she try dating both Scott and Isaac at once to see where it gets her.”

“Oh.” Lydia looks surprised, for a moment pleased, but then unhappy. “Oh.”

“What?” Stiles asks. “What is it?”

“Allison is . . .” Lydia lets out a breath. “I think she has trouble wanting things for herself sometimes, you know? She blames herself for her mother’s death . . .”

“Uh, why?” Stiles asks. “She didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course not,” Lydia says, executing a perfect hair toss. “But guilt is funny, isn’t it?”

Stiles thinks to how he had felt after his mother’s death. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess it is.”

“It’s like, she knows that she’s not responsible for what happened,” Lydia says, “but I think she feels like she wasn’t there for her mother before she died. They’d been fighting a lot, not just about Scott, but about everything. Allison wanted to be more independent, wanted to . . . and now I think it’s just, any time she wants something for herself it’s just like losing her mother all over again.”

It doesn’t make any sense, but at the same time it _does_ , in a twisted sort of way. He thinks about it for a minute, then says, “Well, I didn’t push it. I just told her that I thought she should think about it. So maybe we should just give her some space.”

Lydia looks at him for a minute, then nods. “You’re pretty smart, you know that?”

“No, I had no idea,” he replies, and she smacks his arm. He smirks at her, but then sobers a little. “Look, Lydia, I think Allison’s going to be okay. I mean, she’s been through a lot but she seems really strong, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Lydia says. “You’re right, I just . . . I worry about her, that’s all. I care about her.”

“Well, look, if you want in on the relationship I’m putting together for her – ”

Lydia punches him in the arm. “Not like that.”

Stiles grins at her. “Well, maybe we should try scoping out Scott and Isaac’s feelings about it, to see if we can clear any landmines for her ahead of time.”

“Good idea,” Lydia says, with a nod. “I’ll take Isaac, you take Scott.”

“Deal,” he says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Just to let you know, I'm going to be out of town next week so there won't be any posts for a little while. But I'll be back, I promise!

 

Romeo and Juliet is a smashing success, inasmuch as an English class project can be. The group of them go out after school to get pizza, and even Scott drags himself away from lacrosse practice long enough to attend. Lacrosse is in full swing now, and as the team captain, Scott is getting very busy with it. Stiles showed up for a few practices, but he can’t really get into it since he’s benched with absolutely zero possibility of getting onto the field. He’ll stick to being an academic.

A couple times, it looks like Allison is thinking about saying something to Scott. Lydia nudges Stiles underneath the table, clearly intending that he get his ass into gear as regards to their deal. It’s easy enough. Scott is his ride home. Their parents are out on a _third date_ , and they’re pretty much ready to pick out bunk beds.

“Hey, let me ask you something,” Stiles says. He decides to ease into the whole ‘polyamory’ thing by starting with a more basic question. “You ever think about asking Lydia out on a date?”

“Lydia?” Scott’s face cracks into a grin. “Hell no. She was dating Jackson back when I was still a total loser, and by the time she might have looked in my direction, I was with Allison, so . . .”

“Yeah, but you and Allison aren’t a thing anymore,” Stiles says.

Scott grimaces and changes the subject off himself. “Why do you ask? If you’re thinking about asking her out, you should go for it. I wouldn’t have a problem with it.”

“No, I don’t really . . .” Stiles is quiet for a minute before saying, “I’m pretty sure I’m gay.”

“Oh.” Scott seems surprised, although not really offended. “Well, that would be a pretty good reason not to ask Lydia out, then.”

“I mean, I think I’m sort of bi?” Stiles says. “But I, uh, I’ve been leaning lately. Towards guys. A lot.”

“A certain guy?” Scott teases.

Stiles’ cheeks flush pink. “Maybe.”

“Is it Danny?” Scott asks. “Because you should definitely ask him out if it is. I think you two have a lot in common, actually.”

“No, it’s, uh,” Stiles says, and stammers out the first thing that pops into his head, “it’s Tom Hardy, actually.”

“Oh, that kind of ‘certain guy’,” Scott says, and laughs. “I can dig it. There are only a few guys out there that make me question my heterosexuality, and Tom Hardy is definitely one of them.”

“Anyway, this isn’t about me,” Stiles says. He huffs out a sigh and says, “Look, man, it’s obvious that you’re not over Allison. And it’s equally obvious that Allison’s not over you. She still really likes you, man.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Scott says glumly. “She’s with Isaac now, and I can’t ruin that for them.”

“Okay, well, would you be willing to share?” Stiles says, and Scott blinks at him. “Dude, have you seen the way Isaac looks at you? I’m pretty sure he’d be just as happy to date you as he would be to date Allison. So as far as I’m concerned, what makes the most sense is for all three of you to date each other.”

“I don’t . . .” Scott pulls up in front of Stiles’ apartment and says, “I don’t deserve her.”

“That’s not really the question I asked,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, but it’s kind of the important one,” Scott says.  “I can’t . . . I can’t be with her. I’m not good enough for her.”

“Whoa, okay, hold the phone, back up the truck,” Stiles says. “In what universe is that up to you to decide? If Allison wants to be with you – putting the theoretical threesomes on hold for a minute – then why would you say you’re not good for her, or that you don’t deserve her?”

“I don’t, though,” Scott say. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Look, the whole ‘deserving’ thing is crap,” Stiles says, “because life isn’t fair. They try to teach us that but it never really gets through, but it’s true. People get things they don’t deserve all the time, and people don’t get what they do deserve. Criminals go free, innocent people go to jail. Jerks win the lottery. Sometimes the asshole gets the girl; sometimes the hero gets the girl. Life is just all fucked up about that, okay? If Allison decides she wants to be with you, then ‘deserving’ has nothing to do with it. You can’t make those decisions for her.” He pauses, then adds, “That’s what her mother tried to do.”

Scott gives him a sharp look, but then heaves a sigh. “Yeah. Maybe . . . maybe you’re right. I don’t know.”

“All I’m saying is, you have to think about what _you_ want.” Stiles thinks back to what Lydia had said about Allison, and wonders if Scott has some of the same problem. “It’s okay to want things for yourself, you know?”

There’s a long moment of quiet before Scott finally says, “Yeah, maybe.”

“You know how I told you that getting bullied was one of the reasons we moved here?” Stiles asks, and Scott nods. “It’s basically _the_ reason we moved. Because I couldn’t even go to school anymore. I got really depressed, and . . . do you have any idea how guilty I felt about that? My father had to turn his entire life upside down to get me out of Montana. But, you know, it’s stupid to feel guilty. He did it for me, because he loves me. So I guess that means that in his opinion, I deserved it. And my opinion doesn’t really count.”

“Well, I can’t exactly just say to Allison ‘hey, you wanna hook up with me and Isaac’,” Scott says.

“Obviously not,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “My point is just, if she asks you, don’t sabotage your own chances because you think you’re not good enough for her. Okay?”

“Okay,” Scott says, and he looks a little more upbeat. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, man.”

Feeling like he’s accomplished enough for one day, Stiles decides to leave sleuthing for another time. He waves and says good night and heads into the apartment. It’s not yet late, so he tidies up a bit and does the easy parts of his homework to get it out of the way so he won’t have to do it over the weekend.

When his father comes home, Stiles wants to pump him for information about the date, but his father’s smile is answer enough. It clearly went well. He’s talking about how they’re going out again on Wednesday, because she has that day off and there are some shops downtown she wants to show him. They watch some television together and then Stiles goes to bed.

He immediately finds himself in Peter’s cell, and the werewolf is pacing around, prowling every corner of the cell like a caged animal. Stiles starts telling him about what’s going on, and Peter turns and snarls at him. “I told you to get me out of here, not to play matchmaker on The Young and the Pathetic.”

“Chill,” Stiles says. “I know what I’m doing, okay? This is helping me get closer to both Scott _and_ Allison. It’s making them trust me. You told me to get close to them, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“You’re _helping_ them,” Peter growls. “I’m the one who needs help.”

Stiles watches the way Peter’s body trembles, the way his fists are clenched so tightly that he can see his claws digging into his palms. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay? But you have to trust me.” He takes a step closer, and Peter snarls and flinches. “Trust me, Peter.”

Peter bares his teeth for another moment before Stiles reaches out and caresses his cheek, and then he shudders and leans against the wall, slowly sliding to the ground. “You don’t – don’t know what it’s like in here,” he says.

“I know,” Stiles says. “But I’m going to help you, Peter. It just takes time. But I needed to know how much Allison knew about what had happened, and whether or not I could get Scott to talk to me about it.”

Peter lets out a slow breath, some of the tension leaving his body. “And what did you find out?”

“Well, Scott wouldn’t admit that he had anything to do with you being captured,” Stiles says, “and he also seems to have enormous self-esteem problems. I’ll keep working on him. I don’t think Allison knows anything about it; I’m not even sure she knows you’re not in prison. So she’s not going to be any help. And Gerard obviously wouldn’t talk to me or give me the time of day, and trying to push him would only make him suspicious.” He shakes his head a little. “Chris Argent is the weak link in the chain. The way he looked when I saw him – he’s shouldering enormous guilt over something, probably either Victoria’s death or the fact that he hid the details about it from Allison.”

Peter is nodding along. “From what you’ve told me, Allison had a lot of trouble dealing with that. Gerard used it to manipulate both her and Scott, I think, into helping capture me.”

“You think Allison helped?” Stiles asks.

“I’m fairly sure of it. Scott gave them my location; he and Gerard came in through the front. When I tried to get out the back, someone was waiting there. But it was someone with a bow and arrow, not a gun. That’s Allison, not Chris.”

“I’ll take your word on it.” Stiles nods. “Okay. Gerard twisted his granddaughter into blaming you for Victoria’s death, and so she took up arms, which I bet her dad didn’t want her to do, to help capture you. But that still doesn’t mean she knows anything about where you are now.”

“But you think Chris does,” Peter says.

“I bet if he doesn’t, he can find out,” Stiles says.

“Then what’s your plan?”

“Allison is his weak spot,” Stiles says. “We just need to apply some leverage.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It takes Stiles a day or two to decide on a plan. Chris isn’t going to tell him anything, so he’s going to need to trick information out of him. Cell phone cloning is super illegal, but there are still plenty of websites that tell him how to do it. He orders what he needs and buys himself a burner phone. He’s hoping that money isn’t going to be an issue. He has some saved up – both sets of grandparents gave him money for Christmas, and unbeknownst to his father, he has a small business selling papers on the internet. He does also get an allowance, as long as he does all his chores and keeps his grades up.

So for now, he’s okay. He hopes he can keep it that way, and wonders if Peter has money. If Peter is real, that is. But he’s beyond wondering about that now. He’s so wrapped up in all of this that he’s stopped questioning reality, at least most of the time.

Getting to Chris’ cell is easier than he would have thought because both Scott and Isaac are on the lacrosse team, and Allison drags her father to the first game of the season. Stiles sits with them in the bleachers, along with Lydia, and just edges closer to Chris until his little SIM reader picks up the signal. That’s all he needs.

He also sneaks a few pics of Allison with his burner phone, which is easy enough because everyone is taking pictures. Then he waits.

At ten o’clock at night, he makes sure the GPS tracking is turned off and uses the burner to text Chris. ‘Is this Chris Argent?’

Not surprisingly, the response comes right away. ‘Who is this?’

‘An old friend,’ Stiles texts. ‘I must say that I wasn’t a fan of the accommodations you and your family gave me. I’ve had myself released ahead of schedule.’

A moment later, his phone rings. Stiles lets it go to voice mail. He can’t fake Peter’s voice and has no interest in an actual conversation.

Finally, Chris texts back, ‘What do you want?’

‘I just wanted to let you know how beautiful your daughter looked tonight,’ Stiles texts, and sends the picture.

The phone rings again. He doesn't answer, but this time Chris leaves him a voice mail. “Listen to me, you piece of shit, don’t you dare go after my daughter,” he says. “Don’t you even go _near_ my daughter. I will gut you and strangle you with your own intestines, do you understand me? If you touch one hair on my daughter’s head, I will make you regret the day you were born.”

“Yikes, Chris,” Stiles says to his silent bedroom, and then waits for it. “Come on, come on, come on,” he murmurs underneath his breath, staring at the clone. “Come on, come on . . . yes!”

Chris is dialing out. It’s a local number. Stiles can’t overhear the conversation, more’s the pity, but he can see that it was short. Under a minute. A few minutes later, Chris’ phone receives a photograph. A photograph of Peter, in his cell.

“Jackpot!” Stiles says. Chris called the prison to confirm that Peter was still there, and demanded a picture for proof. “And now I have the phone number of the prison.”

His burner phone rings about thirty second later, and Chris leaves another voice mail. “I might not know who you are,” he says, “but believe this: I’m going to find you. And I’m going to make you regret what you did tonight.”

“Yeaaaahhhh, that’s . . . terrifying, thanks,” Stiles says to the burner phone. He immediately turns it off, dismantles it, and walks out of the apartment to throw it down a sewer grate. Even then, he feels nervous, but there’s not much he can do about it. He uses the clone to dial the prison’s number. If they have caller ID, it’ll look like it’s coming from Chris.

A woman’s voice picks up. “Authorization code?” she says.

Stiles hangs up without saying anything. “Fuck,” he mutters. It would have been nice if they had picked up with something useful like the name of their prison, but there isn’t much he can do about it. And he’s a mile ahead of where he was the day before. He has the phone number of somebody who not only knows where Peter is, but has eyes on him. Somebody who can go take a picture of him in his cell and send it to inquiring parties in under five minutes.

The next day is Sunday, and Stiles wanders down to the sheriff’s station at about half past noon, ostensibly looking for his father but already knowing that he’s out on a call. (GPS tracking works wonders.) So he sits down at his father’s desk to wait and starts typing.

Phone records aren’t much use. The phone number is unregistered, and he can’t get specific records for it without a warrant. But he’s able to track the two phone calls that he and Chris made.

“So here’s what I know,” he tells Peter that night. “Using those phone calls and looking at which cell towers they bounced off of, I can now roughly triangulate the location of your prison. I’ve got about a five mile radius that you have to be within. Presuming that the picture of you originated with the person who sent it and they didn’t have to get it from someone else, but let’s go with that, Occam’s Razor, et cetera. Now, that area is on the west edge of town. It’s mostly industrial. A couple tech centers, a Pepsi plant, a construction firm, et cetera. So it’s not a _lot_ to go on. But my guess is that Chris is going to visit you within the next day or two.”

Peter is nodding. “He’s going to see if I’m communicating with anyone, to see who I might have put up to sending him those messages.”

“So, Chris has the GPS tracking on his phone turned off,” Stiles says, “which is why I put a GPS tracking bug in the wheel well of his car.” He grins and says, “All you need to do is tell me when he shows up.”

“You are amazing,” Peter says, getting a fistful of Stiles’ shirt and drawing him in closer. Stiles lets himself be pulled, but then balks at the last second. Peter stands quite still, breathing against Stiles’ mouth. “Are you frightened?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers.

“Don’t be,” Peter says, and kisses him. It’s gentle, soft. “We’re meant to be together, Stiles. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, even though his stomach is still full of butterflies. He leans in slightly and lets Peter kiss him again, lets Peter put a hand on the back of his neck to hold him steady, his thumb rubbing against the short hairs there. His knees go a little weak at the pressure of Peter’s tongue, licking along the crease of his lips, and he opens his mouth to let Peter in. It’s warm and firm and glorious, and the next thing he knows, his hands are clutching at the back of Peter’s shirt as Peter kisses him like he’s the only thing in the world.

When he finally breaks off for air, he’s panting for breath. Peter reaches out and taps a finger against his lips. “Just think,” he says. “Soon we’ll be able to do that in real life.”

Stiles nods a little, feeling numb in a good sort of way. “Soon.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles comes home from school Tuesday practically glued to his phone, waiting for Chris to go anywhere in the radius that Peter might be in. He had spent the entirety of Monday at his day job, and Stiles is about to go insane. He wonders if Gerard went to check on Peter, instead, but then remembers that Peter would have told them if that were the case. No, either Chris doesn’t want to check on Peter physically, or he just hasn’t had time yet.

Gerard is another question, though. Stiles wonders whether or not Chris has told him about what had happened. If so, he didn’t do it over the phone. Chris made only one more call that night, which was to Allison, presumably to check in on her. So Stiles has no idea whether or not Gerard knows.

Of course, even once he figures out where Peter is, getting him free is going to be a whole other problem. But there’s no use in dwelling on that until he’s found him.

He’s surprised to see that his father’s home already, sitting at the kitchen table with his reading glasses on, and greets him with “Yo, Dad,” as he wanders through the living room.

“Hey,” Tom says. “Come sit down with me for a minute.”

Stiles finally tears his gaze away from his phone, looking up in alarm. “What? What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Well, that might depend on how you answer my question,” Tom says, as Stiles sinks into the chair across from him. “Why were you using my computer at work to snoop around police files?”

“Uh, what?” Caught, Stiles scrambles for an answer. “I was just, uh, curious. You know.”

“About what?”

Stiles cringes. “It’s, uh, it’s kind of a long story . . .”

Tom sighs. “Son, does this have anything to do with what we talked about? With Peter Hale and those weird dreams you were having.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip for a minute before he says, “Okay, yes. I’m like ninety-eight percent sure he’s not at Folsom. The prison records are there but there’s no court records, you know, no motions filed or anything like that, which would be weird, he was arrested like nine months ago now. You’d think the trial would have been started or there would have been stuff about changes of venue and – anyway, that’s what I _started_ looking at, and then I realized that Kate Argent was guilty of the fire, right? Even though she was exonerated. Gerard Argent went to college with the sheriff here, and his last race was really tight, and I think Gerard agreed to support him financially in exchange for the favor. Peter Hale didn’t go to Folsom, they just mocked up those records and tucked him away somewhere else.”

“Why would they do that?” Tom asks carefully.

“Well, if he goes to trial, everything Kate did would be made public, right? His lawyers would drag it all out. And the Argents don’t want the scandal. So they just pay a few bribes and have Peter tucked away in some maximum security facility, put him in solitary and throw away the key. But see, the thing is, Dad, Peter did some really bad things, but he doesn’t deserve this. They’re drugging him, and keeping him in isolation so he can’t tell anybody who he is. We have to get him out of there. He’s depending on me. But we can’t trust anybody, because everyone here is in on it, right? And I’m the only one he can talk to, because of our connection. So he’s feeding me information, but I have to figure out where he is. And I’ve been trying to do that, but Gerard Argent isn’t the type you can mess around with, right? So I have to think around corners. And now that you know, you can help me, right? I mean, I can go over what Peter’s told me so far, but you have to promise you can’t tell anyone else, especially not people at the station, because a lot of them are probably in on it, too.”

Tom sits and listens to all of this, letting Stiles ramble with a facial expression that’s strangely guarded. That doesn’t bother Stiles, though he’s a little puzzled about it. He would have expected his father to be full of questions or objections. But instead he just sits there, silent and still, until Stiles winds down and he says, gently, “Stiles, are you listening to yourself? Do you realize what you sound like?”

“What?” Stiles asks, and then the meaning of his father’s question sinks in. He has to stop for a minute and really examine what the last few minutes have probably been like for his father. About how he’s talking about all these things Peter has told him like they’re reality, like he hasn’t stopped and thought about whether or not any of this is real in weeks now. He’d gotten so deep into it that it had never occurred to him. “Oh. I . . . oh. Wow. Okay. I sound like a total psycho.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but . . .” Tom pushes his hand through his hair. “You’re not making a lot of sense. I mean, how would you even know a tenth of this stuff? Because . . . you dreamed it?”

“No, you know what, Dad, let’s call a spade a spade,” Stiles says. “Apparently I’ve moved from the occasional visual hallucination to full blown paranoid delusions. Really no way to get around that.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “I . . . I didn’t realize, I mean . . . is it sad to say it all made sense in my head?”

“Of course it did,” Tom says. “That’s kind of how it works.”

Stiles nods and closes his eyes, wrestling with this for a long minute. One of the things that’s not on the mental illness brochure is the constant, nagging self-doubt. Doubting everything he sees, everything he hears, everything he _thinks_. He had gotten away from that for a little while. But it was all another trick. Another set of crossed wires that somehow convinced an otherwise rational mind that everything around him was cloaked in some monstrous conspiracy.

“I know ‘are you okay’ is a stupid question, but . . .” Tom says slowly.

Stiles just gives another nod. He’s quiet for a few seconds, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Do you know why I didn’t tell you about what the kids in Missoula were doing to me?” he asks, and his father frowns, taken aback by this sudden change of subject. “Because I didn’t know whether or not it was real. I thought maybe it was just some, some persecution complex I was developing. And I was afraid that if I told you . . . I was just . . . afraid.”

Tom sits down next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Stiles, you don’t ever have to be afraid of what I’m going to think,” he says. “You’re my son, and I’m here for you, no matter what. I want you to be able to tell me anything. Even if it sounds crazy. _Especially_ if it sounds crazy. I know that what’s going on in your head is complicated, but I also know that it seems real to you. That’s not your fault, Stiles. None of this is your fault.”

“Okay.” Stiles rubs his hands over his face. “The worst part . . . I mean, there are a lot of worst parts, but . . . I kept thinking Scott was involved. That, that he was ducking my calls or lying to me, or . . . Scott’s the best friend I’ve ever had, he’s the first person to actually, you know, accept me, in a really long time. And my stupid, twisted brain had to go and try to turn me against him. I just, I don’t know why my own brain hates me so much.”

He expects his father to argue that, but he doesn’t. Tom just rubs his back and says, “I don’t know either, kiddo.”

Stiles heaves a sigh. “What now?”

“I’m going to call Dr. Melcher and get you an appointment for tomorrow, okay?” Tom says. “We’ll talk everything over with him and decide where to go from there.”

That’s about the last thing that Stiles wants, but he knows his father is right. This is something he needs to do. Because if he doesn’t nip this in the bud, it’s only going to get worse from here. Even now, he can feel his subconscious trying to argue, trying to say that this is _real_ , and getting angry that his father won’t listen. “Okay,” he says.

“How about we watch a movie, then?” Tom asks. “Give you something else to think about?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “That sounds good.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!
> 
> Here's where we get into the really triggery Eichen House stuff. Take care, everybody!

 

By the time they get to Melcher’s office the next day, Stiles is feeling extremely hangdog about everything. To be precise, it’s the next evening. His schedule was full, but he agreed to work them in at the end of the day. So it’s not until five thirty that Stiles is slumping on the sofa in his doctor’s office, trying not to look like he’s sulking. He’s asked his father to explain. He does his best, he really does, but he just doesn’t want to have to tell his doctor about exactly how off the rails he’s going.

So Tom explains, and Melcher sits there and frowns and looks intelligent. When Tom finishes talking, he says, “This sort of full-blown delusion is new for you, isn’t it.”

Stiles nods and studies his hands. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any idea how it got started?”

After a moment, Stiles lets out a breath. “I don’t know. I mean, maybe. I was having . . . I don’t know if they were dreams or hallucinations. They were mostly at night. Anyway, there was a guy who was telling me about all of this, about how . . . how the visions were real and everything.”

Melcher nods, frowning intelligently. “Was the man telling you to do anything?”

“Uh . . . yeah.” He clears his throat. “There were some people in town that he thought were enemies. People I had met. He wanted me to spy on them and, uh, do that sort of thing.”

“Did he ever tell you to hurt anyone?”

“No, sir.”

Melcher is still nodding. “This does sound like a classic schizophrenic delusion,” he says, and Stiles tightens up. “The medication you’re currently on might control the hallucinations, but it’s clearly insufficient as an anti-psychotic. I think we’re going to need to add something new. There’s actually a very promising new medication on the market. But it does come with side effects, and so they recommend starting on a low dose. I think it would be safest to admit you to the hospital until we can get you on a dose that’s working.”

Stiles hangs his head and just nods, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

Tom reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. It’s not like psychiatric hospitalization is anything new for them, but he knows how much Stiles hates it. “I can call Melissa, maybe she can get you a room with a view,” he says jokingly, trying to cheer Stiles up.

“Actually,” Melcher says, “there’s a standalone psychiatric hospital in Beacon Hills that takes very good care of their patients. It’s called Eichen House. I’m going to call over there and see if we can get you admitted.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, wondering if psychiatric hospitals have review pages on Yelp. He doesn’t quite dare go to check. He knows that his father has done research on psychiatric hospitals before, but only when his admission wasn’t on an emergent basis. When he had first been admitted to start on anti-psychotics, he had been at one of the best hospitals in the country.

“Hello, Annette, this is Dr. Melcher, can I speak to admissions . . .? Of course.” A long silence. “Yes, this is Dr. Melcher, I have a patient for admission. Prz . . .” He stumbles over the name.

“Przemyslaw,” Tom says.

Melcher does a passable job at imitating him. “Przemyslaw Stilinski.” He gives some further information, nods a few times, jots down a few notes. “Yes, tell Dr. Samuels that I’ll fax over his medication orders. Thanks.” He hangs up and says, “Okay, they’re going to get a room ready for you. Go home, get a few things, have a bite to eat. It’ll be after dinner by the time they get you in.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, standing up.

“Thank you, doctor,” Tom adds, shaking Melcher’s hand.

Stiles is quiet as they drive home. He doesn’t know what he would say, if there’s anything he’s supposed to say. He just wants to crawl under his bed and wait for all of this to go away. He remembers at the last minute that his father had been talking about a date with Melissa. “I’m sorry to mess up your plans,” he says.

Tom shakes his head. “Come on, Stiles. What am I going to say?”

Stiles sighs. “That it’s not my fault. I’m sick and that’s not my fault.”

“There you go,” Tom says, squeezing his shoulder. “This is just like, well, let’s say you had cancer and you were going in for a round of chemotherapy. You wouldn’t be ashamed of that, would you?”

“No,” Stiles says.

“And your classmates would probably all shave their heads in solidarity,” Tom says. “This is the same thing. I know that mental illness has that huge stigma attached, but it’s just that – an illness. And you’re going to the hospital so we can get you better.” They pull up into the driveway and he says, “Besides, I’ll pick up some overtime shifts, make us some extra cash, and then maybe you and I can go catch a Mets game when you get out.”

“Go Yankees,” Stiles says, grinning despite himself, and darts out of the car to the sound of his father’s feigned outrage. He goes up to his room and throws a few changes of clothes – loose, comfy sweatpants and T-shirts – into a bag, along with his toiletries. Every psychiatric ward he’s ever been in has had different rules about what they are and aren’t allowed to bring. But anything he can’t bring, his father can just bring home, so he packs his laptop, adds a few books, and grabs his pillow.

When he gets back downstairs, his father has made him a sandwich, which he shoves into his mouth as quickly as possible. “Oh, they might want your records – ” Tom says, getting up and heading into his office.

“I’ll go put my stuff in the car,” Stiles says, heading outside. He’s taken aback to find that Scott’s just pulled up to their house on his dirt bike. “Hey,” he says, clutching lamely at his pillow.

“Hey!” Scott says, with his usual enthusiasm. “Sorry to just stop by, I texted you but you didn’t reply, but I figured maybe you forgot to charge your phone, anyway, check it, I got the new – ” He stops talking as he takes in the pillow and the bag that Stiles is holding, and blinks. “Oh, are you guys going somewhere for the weekend?”

“Uh, I,” Stiles says, glancing over his shoulder as his father comes out of the house. He knows that his father won’t judge him for anything he says, but he’s determined to make his father proud. This isn’t his fault. And Scott is his friend, the best friend he’s ever had. “I have to go into the hospital for a few days.”

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Scott asks, his eyes going wide.

“Yeah, it’s just . . .” Stiles takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I have trouble with hallucinations and stuff. That’s what causes the panic attacks a lot of the time. They want to try me on a new medication, but it’s safer to do that in the hospital, so, that’s where I’m going.”

“Oh, okay,” Scott says. He seems a little uncertain, but he isn’t doing that _thing_ that people do, where they look at Stiles as if he’s one step away from shooting up a post office. “Maybe I could come visit you this weekend?”

“I don’t really . . . want anyone to see me there,” Stiles admits. “Anyway, it’s not going to be long. Two or three days, probably. I might be home before the weekend is over anyway.”

“Okay, well, I have this for seven days,” Scott says, brandishing the video game. “So, when you get out, give me a call. Of course, by then I will have completely mastered it, so I’ll leave you in my dust, but that’s a risk you’ll just have to take.”

Stiles smiles despite himself. “Oh, we’ll see,” he says, scoffing.

Scott gives him a friendly shoulder punch, then says, “Oh, hey, Deputy Stilinski! I’ll tell my mom you said hi. See you guys later,” he adds, and with that, he’s on his dirt bike and on his way.

Stiles tosses his stuff in the car and then climbs into the front seat. “I know, I know, you’re proud of me,” he says, as his father gets in the driver’s seat. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Dad.”

“I would never,” Tom says, tousling his son’s hair and then dropping the subject. Dr. Melcher had given them the address to Eichen House, and he puts it in his phone’s GPS. It’s about a fifteen minutes drive, and Stiles gives the place the immediate side-eye. Every other psychiatric ward he’s been in has been a part of a larger hospital. This place is by itself, and it has a wrought iron gate, and ivy-covered walls, and . . .

“Okay, I’m just gonna say it,” he says, seeing that his father is also looking somewhat dubious. “I’m not digging the Arkham Asylum vibe they’ve got going here.”

Tom sighs. “I admit that it looks a little old-fashioned, but . . . well, Beacon Hills is a lot smaller than Denver. Or even Missoula. Besides, Dr. Melcher wouldn’t have recommended it if it wasn’t okay. It’s probably more modern on the inside.”

The thing is, it really isn’t. The front doors open up into an enormous lobby with a chandelier overhead and the entire place practically feels sepia. And there’s something underneath it, something that makes him uneasy, although he can’t really put it into words. The place just feels _bad_ somehow, like it’s got something rotten hidden deep at its core. It feels poisonous, and dark, and suffocating.

But Stiles keeps his mouth shut, even as he’s showed into the ‘admissions office’, which looks like the study from Clue. At least his father looks equally dubious, which means that his reaction isn’t entirely built from his psychosis. That’s better than nothing.

The admitting doctor drones on and on about their therapeutic method and group counseling and how Stiles’ psychologist already does a session here (“Joy,” Stiles deadpans, and Tom gives a snort despite himself), and then they’re ready to show him to his room. The admitting nurse is looking through his things, and has him change out of his jeans and plaid into the sweatpants and T-shirt that he had brought. Then she gives him a pair of slippers and takes his shoes. She gives the laptop back to Tom but lets Stiles keep the books.

“No phones,” she adds.

Stiles clutches his phone defensively. “What do you mean, no phones?” he asks, shooting his father an unhappy look.

The doctor is quick to intervene. “While you’re here, we want you to be focused on being here,” he says. “It’s all part of the therapeutic method. Of course, you’ll be allowed to call your father any time you need to, and he can call to check on you. But we don’t allow smart phones or anything with an internet connection.”

Stiles whines, but they stand firm, and his father apparently doesn’t think it’s worth arguing over. So Stiles turns his phone off so the battery won’t run down, and lets his father take it and tuck it into a pocket.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay, buddy?” he says, and gives Stiles a hug. Stiles hugs back, hard, and somehow manages not to beg his father not to leave him there. There’s no way that the place is as bad as it seems. He’s just freaked out and paranoid.

The aide shows him up to the ward, and into a room where there’s already another young man in bed. He rolls over and says hello to Stiles when he’s showed in, but doesn’t seem very talkative. Stiles flops onto the bed and is immediately bored out of his skull. That’s one thing that he’s always hated about psychiatric wards. Sure, he sees the doctor, there’s a therapy session or two, but the majority of it is free time, with hardly anything to do. Of course, sometimes he feels sicker than a dog. And sometimes the new meds interact with the Adderall, which can make things even worse.

But for the moment, his Adderall is working, so he’s able to lay on the bed and read for a while. Then there are evening meds, and a man comes into their room. At least, Stiles thinks he’s a man. He’s almost seven feet tall and with enormously broad shoulders, dark red skin and black eyes. Smoke wafts off of him in every direction. It looks like the literal incarnation of the devil has walked into his room, and it’s all Stiles can do not to dive underneath his bed.

“Meds,” the devil grunts, and shoves a small paper cup at Stiles.

Stiles takes a moment to breathe and focuses on the little pills, closing his eyes for a few moments while Satan goes over to his roommate. When he looks up again, the devil is a man, stocky but not enormous, with a crew cut and a white uniform. Stiles takes another breath. “What are these?” he asks. “There are four pills here. I’m not starting four new meds, and I take my Effexor and Adderall in the morning.”

“This is what the doctor ordered,” the orderly says.

“Yes, I figured that, but I’d like to know what it is before I take it, uh,” Stiles says. He glances at the man’s name tag and says, “Uh, Mr. Brunski.”

“You’ll take it whether you like it or not,” Brunski says. “If you want, I can shove them down your throat.”

“Look, this isn’t exactly an unreasonable question,” Stiles says, but then he sees the way that his roommate is looking at him, eyes wide and alarmed. He snatches the little cup and says, “I’m going to call my father about this tomorrow.”

“Okay, Draco,” Brunski says, as Stiles knocks the pills back. “Open wide.”

Stiles stings at the injustice of it all, but opens his mouth and lifts his tongue to demonstrate that he doesn’t still have the pills in his mouth. Then he lays back down and folds his arms over his chest, sulking.

“Don’t mess with Brunski, man,” his roommate says. “He’ll stick you full of Haldol and then tase your ass unconscious.”

“That’d be kind of redundant,” Stiles says. “Come on, what if I had allergies?”

“Do you?”

“No, but what if I did?” Stiles glowers. Then he sighs. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

“Oliver. What are you in for?”

“Paranoid delusions. So, you know, he’s lucky that I didn’t think he was trying to poison me as part of the conspiracy that’s ruining my life. You?”

“Bipolar, went through a manic phase that ended with me stripping in a grocery store and getting arrested,” Oliver says. “That was six weeks ago.”

“Six weeks? Jesus,” Stiles says. He’s starting to feel kind of dizzy and overall exhausted. “Ugh. The fuck do you think they gave me?”

“Sedative,” Oliver says. “They give everyone a sedative at night. Don’t want anyone wandering around. So, your standard Haldol-Valium cocktail, plus whatever anti-psychotic they’re starting you on, and your old anti-psychotic since they’ve got to wean you off that one. And that makes four.”

“Great.” Stiles bites off a yawn. Fuck it. If they’re going to sedate him, he’ll just roll with it. At least being unconscious will keep him from being bored.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The dreams that night are the worst that he’s had in a long time. He’s not sure if it’s the combination of drugs he’s had, or just the roiling dark energy that sits underneath the asylum he’s currently in. He dreams about people coughing and moaning, lying in beds, of fire and gunshots. Everything is overlaid with that buzzing darkness that crawls underneath his skin and makes him itch all over. And he dreams of Peter, of Peter in his cell, screaming for Stiles to come to him.

He’s surly the next morning, eating overcooked scrambled eggs and limp, soggy toast. Oliver tries to engage him in conversation, but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. They give him more medication. Another four pills – his Effexor and his Adderall, the old anti-psychotic and the new. His stomach aches a little afterwards, but he swallows down the nausea. He’s dealt with all of it before, the raft of side effects that come with basically every psychological medication he’s ever taken.

Melcher comes by to see him, and he complains about them sedating him at night and the orderly not telling him what he was taking. Melcher says he’ll talk to the orderlies about it, asks if he’s having any side effects, and leaves after five minutes. Morrell comes in to see him, and he complains about the same things.

“Brunski can be a bit . . . overbearing, it’s true,” Morrell says. “They do have a lot of patients here who need, let’s say, a strong hand.”

“Okay, well, I don’t, and I don’t need to be sedated at night,” Stiles says.

Morrell smiles at him. “How did you sleep?”

“Like crap,” Stiles says. “If they want me to sleep, at least they could give me my Ambien instead of whatever that was.”

“I’ll talk to them about it,” Morrell says.

That’s obviously not going to get him anywhere, so he heads into lounge to watch television for a while. Nothing good is on, and he’s getting fidgety and annoyed. After lunch, it’s group therapy time, and Morrell is holding a session and talking about what a ‘mature’ emotion that guilt is. Stiles wants to cram his fist down her throat.

“What do you think, Stiles?” Morrell asks.

“About guilt?” he asks. “I think it’s a useless fucking emotion. What the hell is guilt good for? Either you’ve done something you should actually be guilty for, in which case you should right the wrong if you can or apologize for it and make a promise not to do it again if you can’t. Or, you haven’t done anything wrong, and guilt is just pointless self-flagellation. Do you know how much time I spend feeling guilty over the way I’ve fucked up my father’s life? And he’s always telling me that I shouldn’t apologize, that I shouldn’t be sorry because I can’t help being sick. So, I’ve decided to take a pass on guilt for today.”

Morrell nods sagely at him. “You seem angry today, Stiles. I can tell that you don’t want to be here.”

“Of course I don’t,” Stiles says. “Do any of us? Who the hell wants to be admitted to the loony bin?”

“Stiles, we don’t use that kind of language here,” Morrell says reprovingly.

“Yeah, you know what, I’m sick of everyone tiptoeing over my feelings. I’m crazy, and I’m in a loony bin, for the fifth time in my life. I hate it, and I’m angry, and anger is just as useless as guilt.”

Morrell wisely decides to focus on someone else. Stiles is just suddenly sick of all of this. He stands up to leave, and heads back into the hallway. But he finds the way blocked by Brunski, who looks like Satan again. “Dude, I gotta pee,” Stiles says.

“Hold it,” Brunski tells him.

“Come on, man, what the hell! Why can’t I go to the bathroom?”

“Because I say so,” Brunski says.

“I want to call my father.”

“No phone calls the first seventy-two hours,” Brunski says.

“What?” Stiles asks, mouth dropping open. “They didn’t tell me that when I checked in.”

“They should’ve,” Brunski says. “Now go sit down or we’ll have to put you in restraints.”

“Wait just a fucking second,” Stiles says, his voice rising in volume without him noticing. “Do you think I’ve never been in a psych ward before? You can’t do this. I’m not an involuntary admission. I can walk out of here any time. I’m a minor. You have to allow me to contact my father even if it’s a supervised call. And you can’t restrain me unless I’m being aggressive – ”

“You’re being pretty aggressive right now,” Brunski says.

Stiles forces himself to stop, to examine his tone, to take a deep breath. “I want to call my father.”

“You can’t. Now go sit down before I run out of patience.”

“This place – ” Stiles can barely summon coherent thought. “What is wrong with this place? What the hell is going on?”

Brunski stares at him for a long minute. “You’re paranoid, right?” he says, and Stiles flinches. “Think I’m out to get you. It’s all one big conspiracy. Your brain is playing tricks on you, bucko. Now go sit down.”

Stiles doesn’t have a response to that. He returns to his seat, mind spinning. Is Brunski right? Is he just being paranoid? He doesn’t think so. No psychiatric ward has ever prevented him from calling his father before. Sure, there have been time limits, or a nurse who sits with him while he made the call, but – and nobody’s ever threatened him with _restraints_ before. They just aren’t used, not unless you truly lose it and you’re an immediate threat to yourself or others. Being snarky with an orderly isn’t an immediate threat to anyone.

“Ms. Morrell?” he asks, going up to her at the end of the session. “Brunski won’t let me call my dad.”

Morrell gives him that sage smile. “No phone calls for the first seventy-two hours.”

“No visits, either, I guess?” Stiles says. “My dad said he’d come see me today during visiting hours.”

“Oh, don’t worry, they’ll explain everything to him,” Morrell says, and walks away.

It’s afternoon now, and visiting hours are from three to five. Stiles sits in the common room, chewing his lower lip bloody, waiting for his father. He knows his father, knows that Tom is going to kick up an unholy fuss at being told he can’t see his son. He’s guessing that he’ll be out of this joint by three fifteen, paranoid delusions be damned. They can drive back to Missoula and have him admitted there if they really need to. The doctors there will surely remember him, and they always treated him well.

Minutes tick by. It’s three, then three ten, then three fifteen. Stiles doesn’t realize how jittery he’s getting. His gaze is trained on the clock as it slides from three twenty to three thirty, and the panic attack creeps up on him. He doesn’t even realize he’s having it until he’s curled up in a corner, hyperventilating so hard that his chest aches. One of the orderlies notices and gives him a pill and some juice, but then leaves him there while he waits for it to take effect. By the time it does, his entire body is sore from being coiled so tightly, and his face is soaked with tears that he doesn’t remember crying.

He eats dinner in silence and then they have another group therapy session, the ‘closing’ session where everyone talks about what they did that day and whether or not they accomplished their goals, which can be anything from eating three full meals to reading a book. The goals Stiles had set at the morning session had been to make it through the day without a panic attack, and of course he didn’t, so now everyone wants to talk about that. Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it, though, and he sits there sullenly while the counselor talks about how he’ll get out of this what he puts in.

“This place is evil,” he insists, and the counselor gives him a disappointed look.

They sit in the common room for another hour and he watches Brunski move around, sometimes looking like a normal human, sometimes the devil. He keeps going in and out of a door in the back corner of the ward. It has an electronic lock, which Stiles finds interesting. None of the other doors have those, not even the door at the nurse’s station which leads to the front lobby and escape.

He takes his medication cocktail and goes to bed.

At the morning session the next day, after a breakfast that was identical to the day before, Stiles tells the counselor that his goal is to convince people that Eichen House is not a safe place for him to be, or for anyone ever. When the counselor gently talks about confronting his paranoid delusions, Stiles starts listing off all the violations of his rights that have taken place so far, emphasizing the fact that he knows all about psychiatric hospitalization. But he shuts up when she starts talking to someone else, to avoid the aforementioned butt full of Haldol.

Melcher stops by and hurriedly asks about the side effects. The nausea is worse, so they start him on an anti-nausea medication. This irritates Stiles on general principle. He hates it when they pile more medication on, instead of trying to find something that will come without side effects. But he also doesn’t want to be miserable, so he takes it.

He spends most of the day in the common room, watching Brunski. He goes in and out of the door at the back, occasionally glancing around first. Stiles always makes sure to not be looking directly at him. While he watches, he chats with Oliver and a couple other people, explaining all the ways Eichen House is a terrible place. His theory is that they’re sitting on some well of evil, like a Hellmouth, and it’s corrupting everyone who works there. This amuses the people who are in for reasons other than psychosis, but Stiles doesn’t even care anymore. From now on, he’s operating on the theory that until someone can prove he’s wrong, he’s going to assume he’s right.

He declines to participate in the group therapy session, and Morrell says she’s disappointed in him. Stiles promptly tells her that he gives exactly zero fucks about her disappointment.

“Please watch your language, Stiles,” she replies.

“Or else you’ll restrain me?” Stiles retorts. She doesn’t rise to his baiting.

Then it’s visiting hours again, and his father still isn’t there. He’s now one hundred percent certain that they’ve told his father some set of lies to keep him from visiting. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s no other reason Tom wouldn’t be there. He trusts his father more than anyone or anything else in the world, even more than himself. If Tom’s not visiting, it’s because they’re not letting him.

At the group session after dinner, they review his goals and the counselor becomes somewhat sarcastic with Stiles’ goal to convince other people about Eichen House’s true nature. Oliver raises his hand and says, “He convinced me!” Stiles gives him a high five and declares the day a success.

It’s easy to figure out which of the pills they’re giving him are the sleeping pills, because he doesn’t get them in the morning. He tips the four little pills out into his hand, and waits until Oliver starts hacking and coughing as if he’s gotten a pill down his airway. Then he drops the Haldol and the Valium down behind his bed and knocks back the other two. Brunski tells Oliver to stop showing off, checks Stiles’ mouth, and leaves the room.

“I owe you one, man,” Stiles tells his roommate. He hasn’t told Oliver why he doesn’t want to take the sleeping pills. Just that he doesn’t.

He lies on his side and waits. In every facility he’s been in, there’s been a room check about half an hour after lights out. In that regard at least, Eichen House is no different. He keeps his eyes closed and pretends to sleep. Then he counts off another ten minutes before he slides out of bed.

The question of what’s behind the door at the back of the room has rapidly become an obsession. He has to know. He has to _know_. Trying to put it out of his mind has been an utter failure. It’s grown even more intense in the past forty minutes of lying in bed. He can’t wait any longer.

The hallways and the common room are dark. He walks on bare feet, silent on the linoleum floor. The door is locked, but that’s not a problem. The TV stand is only about six feet away. He ducks behind it and waits. Minutes continue to slide by, but it’s not bothering him as much anymore. He’s got a plan, and waiting is part of the plan.

Finally, someone comes out through the locked door. Stiles waits until the last second and then darts out, grabbing it before it can shut. Then he ducks through and closes it behind him before anyone can notice. Then he turns to see what he’s found.

It’s the hallway from his dream. Everything, right down to the faint scent of disinfectant to the faintly flickering light three cells down, is identical. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat and he just stands there and stares. He can’t move. His entire body is frozen. It can’t be real. It _can’t_ be. This is just another dream he’s having. He fell asleep while he was waiting for lights out, and he’s having the same old dream as before.

After a long minute, he finally manages to process enough to come to two conclusions. The first is that, if it’s a dream, he might as well walk down the hallway like he always does. The second is that, if it’s _not_ a dream, he’d better get moving before someone comes through the door and trips over him. So he starts walking. He resolutely looks straight ahead, not wanting to see anyone in the cells. He gets to the end of the corridor and turns like he always does, to see the glass cell.

Here, for the first time, something is different. Peter is curled up at the back of his cell, but he doesn’t respond when Stiles says his name. He’s curled up into a ball, dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants that look drenched in sweat, and his entire body is shivering. He stares blankly ahead while Stiles says his name, and doesn’t even look at him.

Stiles lifts his hand and puts it against the glass, tries to push through like he can in the dream. But here, the glass is solid. He can’t get to Peter, so he says his name again, louder. Peter twitches and gives a faint moan, but that’s all.

“Hey! What are you doing in here?” a voice shouts, and Stiles jerks around. It’s Brunski, somehow enormous in the hallway, filling it with smoke. He has horns now, curved black ones that are coming out of his forehead. “You can’t be in here!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t – ” Stiles has time to say before Brunski grabs him and slams him up against the glass wall. Stiles gives a little grunt and is about to protest when he feels a sharp sting in his butt. Moments later, everything goes fuzzy and he feels himself start to slide to the ground. He’s still looking at Peter’s shivering body when he passes out.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing trigger warning for Eichen House being a terrible place, and a new trigger warning for people's mental illnesses being used against them.

Stiles wakes up slowly, by degrees. At first, all he’s aware of is that buzzing darkness, the discomfort underneath his skin. He feels disconnected, and the noise of the ward sounds like it’s coming through ten feet of water. He grunts a little and realizes his face is pressed against a pillow. He’s been drooling in his sleep, and it’s gross.

He tries to wipe his mouth, and that’s when he realizes he can’t move, that he’s strapped to the bed. That startles him, and makes him flail. The bed rattles but doesn’t give an inch. He tries to remember what had happened. He had been in the hallway. Seen Peter. Why is he strapped down? He clears his throat and manages to croak out, “Hey – hey! Is anyone there?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice says, and he manages to get his eyes open. It’s Morrell, giving him that patient smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Get me out of these,” Stiles says, rattling them again.

“I can’t do that, Stiles. You were putting people in danger, so they had to restrain you. They’ll come off when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready right now, God damn it – ” Stiles tugs fruitlessly at the restraints on his wrists. “Where’s my dad? I want my dad.”

“Stiles, please calm down,” Morrell says.

“I’m not going to fucking calm down when I’m strapped to a bed in this hellhole and I want my dad!” Stiles shouts. “Let me go, let me out of here, you can’t, you can’t fucking do this – ”

“Stiles, how much do you remember about what happened?” Morrell asks.

“I, I got up, I found – I went down that hallway and there are all these people in cells, in cages, but they’re not human, they’re monsters – ”

Morrell gives an almost imperceptible sigh. “No, Stiles. That didn’t happen. You went into another patient’s room, probably by accident. When Brunski tried to get you back into your bed, you fought him. That’s why you’re restrained right now.”

“No, that – that’s not what happened!” Stiles protests.

“You were hallucinating again, Stiles,” Morrell says, her voice gentle, but implacable.

“I wasn’t!” Stiles shouts. “You’re lying to me, everyone here is a fucking liar, let me the fuck out of here – ” and around then is when someone sticks him with another syringe full of Haldol.

Things get fuzzy. People come in and out, doctors, counselors, demons. He can’t keep them straight. He asks repeatedly for his father and is told more than once that they’ve ‘been in contact’ with him. At one point, one of the demons leans over and quietly says in his ear, “Your father doesn’t want to see you. Don’t you know how much trouble you’re causing for him?”

All the fight goes out of Stiles in an instant. He lies on the bed and lets them drug him with whatever they want and sobs incoherently while people come in and out. People keep asking him what happened, and he keeps telling them about the hallway, about the cages, about Peter. Whenever he does, that buzzing darkness intensifies. Except he think it might be a real buzzing, a real electric shock. He’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything.

“No, Stiles,” they say in those calm, implacable voices. “There is no prison. You went into another patient’s room. You got in a fight with an orderly. That’s what happened. Do you remember?”

“It’s _not_ what happened,” Stiles whines, and they shake their heads and give him more drugs and keep him strapped down.

“Stiles, you have to stop,” a new voice says, and he stares around blearily to find that he’s in the cell with Peter. Is he awake? Is he dreaming? Is Peter there with him? He’s still strapped down. He can’t think. Everything is coated in three layers of fog and he can’t think. Peter kneels next to his bed and caresses Stiles’ cheek, tucks a strand of his hair behind Stiles’ ear. “You’re in pain, and you’re confused, I know. You think they want the truth, so that’s what you keep giving them. But that’s not what they want, Stiles. They just want you to tell them what they want to hear.”

“I can’t,” Stiles whispers. “I know what I saw. Don’t – please don’t let them take that away from me.”

Peter leans over and kisses his forehead. “I can’t stop them, Stiles. Not this time. But I will make them pay. That’s a promise.”

With that, Peter is gone, and it’s another round of pain and voices pressing in on every side, telling him that he didn’t see what he knows he saw. Except he doesn’t know what he saw anymore. It’s hard to think of anything through the pain and the drugs and the ever-growing fear that he’ll never see his father again, that his father won’t want him back until he’s done what they want.

“I went into a patient’s room,” he slurs out. “I got in a fight.”

“That’s good, Stiles.” It’s Morrell again. “Who did you fight with?”

“Brunski. He was mad ‘cause I was out of bed. He tried to make me go back to bed, but I – I was confused. Seeing things that weren’t there.” Stiles starts to cry. “Can I see my dad now?”

Morrell reaches out and squeezes his hand. “We’ll see, Stiles.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s another two days before Stiles finally sees his father, and then it’s at his discharge meeting. They’ve decided he can go home. He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t care. He sits in the main office and looks up when his father comes in, but doesn’t get up to embrace him, even though he desperately wants to. His father’s not going to want him after this. He’s made such a mess of everything. And if he breaks down, like he’s close to doing, they might decide he can’t go home. The thought of having to stay in Eichen House even longer is the most frightening thing he’s ever contemplated.

“Hey, you,” his father says, sliding into the chair next to him and squeezing his shoulder. Then he gives him a critical look and says, “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says automatically, and a faint frown touches his father’s face, and oh God, his father is angry with him, he’s not going to want to take him home, he’s going to –

“I assume Dr. Melcher has brought you up to date?” the head doctor, a woman named Anna Samuels, says.

Tom is still frowning. “He wasn’t long on details. Just that there was an ‘incident’ because the new medication made him combative.”

Samuels is nodding. “He got out of bed and wandered into another patient’s room, then got in a fight with an orderly. We had to adjust his medication again after that, but he’s stabilized now.”

“They had to strap me down,” Stiles mumbles. “They kept giving me Haldol.”

“No, Stiles,” Dr. Samuels says patiently. “That was just part of the delusions you were having. We talked about this, remember?”

“Oh . . . oh, yeah,” Stiles says, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Tom’s frown deepens. He clearly isn’t an enormous fan of Stiles’ apologetic attitude. “What is he taking now?”

“He was started on Risperdal,” Samuels says.

“Haven’t you been on Risperdal before?” Tom asks, addressing Stiles directly.

Stiles stirs and tries to remember. “Yeah . . . back in Missoula. It didn’t control the hallucinations so they changed me to Zyprexa.”

“Which we’ve kept him on,” Samuels says. “Risperdal for the delusions; Zyprexa for the hallucinations.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of him being on two anti-psychotics,” Tom says.

“Unfortunately, taking him off the Zyprexa seemed to make him worse, so . . .” Samuels gives a little shrug. “You can discuss it further with Dr. Melcher. Here’s his med list,” she adds, and hands it over.

Tom takes it and looks it over. He’s frowning again, and Stiles shrinks back into himself. “You increased his Effexor,” he says. “And the Xanax, he’s supposed to take that as needed, why is it on here for twice a day?”

“He was having a lot of anxiety, but that was likely environmental,” Samuels says. “You can take him off of that if you’d like, although I would recommend discussing it with Dr. Melcher.”

“What’s this Zofran?” Tom asks.

“It’s an anti-nausea drug.”

“You couldn’t find something that didn’t make him nauseous?” Tom says, and then waves this aside. “Let me guess: I can talk to Dr. Melcher about it. Never mind. Come on, kiddo, let’s get you home.”

Stiles nods and gets to his feet. He feels wobbly, but is determined to hide it, so he just follows his father outside. As soon as they’re beyond the gates, it’s like a breath of fresh air has washed over him. He has to just stand there and breathe for a few moments, feeling some of the cobwebs wash off him. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until Tom turns to give him another one of those critical, up-and-down looks. “You really don’t look so hot. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says automatically, but since his father obviously expects something else, he adds, “I just didn’t sleep really well.”

“That’s no surprise,” Tom says, shepherding Stiles over to the car. Once they’re on the road, he says, “I wish they’d called me about the Effexor. Last time they increased your dose of that, you puked for three days straight. You’re going back to one-fifty as of right now. Dr. Melcher can bitch all he wants. Maybe then we can get you off this anti-nausea med.” He’s quiet for a minute. “What’s the deal with the Xanax?”

“I didn’t like it there,” Stiles says, and tears are sliding down his cheeks. He hopes his father doesn’t notice. “I guess it made me super anxious.”

“Gotta be honest with you, the place kind of gives _me_ the creeps, and I don’t even have paranoid delusions to blame it on,” Tom says, obviously joking with him.

Stiles makes some appropriate noise. They pull up to a red light, and Tom looks over at him again. He reaches over and thumbs a tear off Stiles’ cheek. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, choking back everything that wants to come boiling out. If he says the wrong thing, he might wind up in Eichen House again and he can’t, he can’t risk that. He’s fine because he has to be fine. He doesn’t know what else to do. He feels hollow, like he’s been cut open and all his insides have been scooped out. He just wants to crawl underneath his bed and hide for a few years.

The light turns green and they drive for another minute. Then Tom pulls into a parking lot and stops the car. “You’re pissed at me, I get it,” he says. “You’ve got every right to be. I don’t – ”

“What? No,” Stiles says, blinking at him, startled out of his malaise. “Why would I be angry?”

“Look, I _wanted_ to come see you, kiddo,” Tom says. “Ms. Morrell told me that you said you didn’t want me to see you all messed up like that and I believed her, but now I’m starting to think maybe _they_ didn’t want me to see you messed up like that. So I’m sorry that I didn’t come visit.”

“Oh, I just . . .” Stiles looks away. “I just figured they were keeping you away. You know. Paranoid delusions. I thought you didn’t want to see me.” He curls in on himself despite his best efforts. “I didn’t behave. I wouldn’t take my meds and I got out of bed and I made such a mess of everything, I just thought – you didn’t want to – ”

“Oh, Jesus, kid,” Tom says, with a sigh. “Okay. Out of the car. You need a hug.”

Stiles doesn’t know quite what to say to that, but he really does want the hug, so he manages to get out of the car, still trembling. His father circles around and draws him into an embrace, squeezing him so tightly that it almost hurts. It’s the first thing since going into Eichen House that feels real, and he burrows into it.

“I know that I can’t make you not sick,” Tom says. “And I know that these delusions seem real to you. But I don’t want you _ever_ thinking that I don’t care about you. No matter what happens. It doesn’t matter to me if you start hallucinating or if you pick a fight with an orderly. I can be upset with your illness without being upset with you. I love you no matter what. And next time they tell me I can’t visit you, I’ll serve those jerks with a warrant.”

Stiles chokes out a laugh and hugs back as tightly as he can. He’s still shaky, but that hollow feeling is starting to abate a little. “Thanks, Dad,” he says.

Tom rubs his back for a minute and then lets him go. “How about we go grab some take-out Chinese food and then head home and watch Spaceballs? That movie always cheers you up.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, brightening up.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles falls asleep on the sofa with his father and has one of the old nightmares, one of the ones about the man with the third eye. His father shakes him awake and holds him until the panic attack abates. Stiles keeps apologizing, and his father keeps telling him not to apologize. He falls asleep again only to promptly have another nightmare, this one about his treatment in Eichen House.

When Tom wakes him up from that, he makes them some cocoa and sits with him for a while. The lines on his forehead have deepened slightly, and Stiles hates worrying his father this way. “Look, Stiles,” Tom says, after a few minutes of silence, “I just want to ask you a question or two, okay? You were talking in your sleep. They didn’t – they didn’t really strap you down, did they? I thought all that kind of Nurse Ratched stuff wasn’t done anymore.”

Stiles shakes his head. He swallows a mouthful of cocoa and has to force it down. His throat is tight and aching. “No. It was just – just more delusional thinking. I was convinced that they were the enemy, you know?”

Relief touches Tom’s face, but he still looks a little skeptical. “It’s just, I know you’re never thrilled to go into the hospital, but normally when you come out, you’re, you know . . .”

“Better?” Stiles asks.

Tom sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “At least, you haven’t been worse,” he says.

“It was just the new medication, Dad. The, uh, Laruda or whatever it was called. It made me wig out and everything after that was just . . . sort of a downward spiral. You know, I pulled out of it, I’m just still kind of shaky.”

“Okay,” Tom says. He sighs again. “Come on, you need some sleep. You look wrecked.”

“What – ” Stiles swallows hard. “What day is it? Do I have school tomorrow?”

Tom doesn’t look thrilled that Stiles has lost track of time, but he doesn’t comment on it. “It’s Thursday night. Why don’t you stay home tomorrow, take the weekend to recover, and you can go back on Monday, okay? I’ve got your make-up work, so you can get started on that.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Stiles lets his father help him up and into his bedroom, and even tuck him in. He closes his eyes and hopes he falls asleep soon.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in Peter’s cell. He doesn’t even start in the hallway, but just wakes up with Peter. The other man is sitting in the corner of his cell, watching him. Stiles wants to beat the shit out of him, wants to scream and swear and tell Peter to get the hell out of his life, to leave him alone. But he can’t. He feels small and frightened and alone, and he walks over to Peter and sits next to him, curling up into a ball. Peter seems surprised, but then reaches out and pulls Stiles into an embrace.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

“I hate you,” Stiles mutters into his shoulder.

“I know,” Peter says. He rubs his hand over Stiles’ hair, cupping the back of Stiles’ neck. “You saw me. In real life.”

“Was it?” Stiles asks, feeling pathetic. “Real life?”

“It was,” Peter says. Stiles starts to pull away, but Peter won’t let him. “I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, Stiles, but it was. All of it was real. Everything they did to you was just to convince you that it was a delusion, but it wasn’t. You saw me. In real life. I’m as real as you, as real as your father.”

Stiles swallows hard, but then nods a little. “You didn’t look too good.”

“They keep me drugged most of the time. Yellow wolfsbane. And if they’re afraid I’m getting too complacent, they bring in Dr. Valack to make me rethink my life choices.”

“Who’s that?”

“The man with the third eye.”

“Oh.” Stiles gives a shudder. He closes his eyes, struggling against it. He doesn’t know whether or not any of it was real. All he can remember clearly is the sting of the Haldol going into him, the continued, implacable voices telling him that there was no prison. He remembers giving in.

“Listen to me, Stiles,” Peter says, cupping Stiles’ face in his hands. “There’s one way you can be sure. One way. Your father. You trust him, don’t you? In all the world, he’s the one thing you’ve always trusted, the rock you’ve built your life on. Get me out of here. Do that for me. Then you can bring me to him. He’ll be able to tell you that I’m real.”

Stiles sucks in a breath. “I don’t . . . I don’t think I can.”

“Yes, you can,” Peter says. “You can do anything, Stiles. You’re the clever one, and your spark – just believe that you can do it, and anything becomes possible. Imagination is more powerful than knowledge. Come and get me, Stiles. Help me escape, and then you’ll know, really _know_ , once and for all, what’s real and what’s not.”

“Very altruistic of you,” Stiles says, managing a weak smile.

Peter arches an eyebrow at him, then says, “I made a deal with you. You help me, and then I’ll help you. Quid pro quo. That seems fair, doesn’t it? And fairness is more than anyone in your life besides your father has ever given you.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and closes his eyes. “But don’t manipulate me. I’m sick of people pulling my strings. Just tell me what you want. You want me to get you out.”

“I want you to get me out of here,” Peter says, with a nod.

“Okay,” Stiles says again. He leans against Peter, curling up against his shoulder. He closes his eyes, but then opens them. “You won’t leave me alone?”

“I’m not going anywhere, trust me,” Peter says in a wry voice. Stiles wrinkles his nose at him, and Peter huffs out a quiet laugh. “No. I’ll stay with you. Until you fall asleep.”

“A dweam wiffin a dweam,” Stiles murmurs, and sees Peter give him a quizzical look. He ignores it, but makes a mental note that as soon as he gets Peter out of prison, he’s going to make him watch The Princess Bride.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles spends a long time in the shower the next day. He wants time alone with his thoughts, and his father is, well, hovering. Stiles can’t blame him for that. Tom is anxious about his son’s state of mind for a variety of reasons. So he can’t just lay in bed or hide in his room, not without his father getting worried about him. A somewhat longer-than-usual shower is okay, though.

His impulse upon waking was to say ‘fuck it’ to everything Peter had said. It wasn’t real. It was just his mind playing tricks on him. But can he really do that? Time has proven that he’s not going to just stop dreaming about him. None of the medication has helped.

He has no idea whether or not Peter is real, whether or not anything he remembers from Eichen House actually happened. Getting Peter out of there – if he’s really there – might be the only way he can find out. Stiles tries to imagine his father’s reaction at what he’s thinking about doing. He can picture the confusion, the disappointment, on his father’s face. But he also remembers what his father said. That he might be upset with Stiles’ illness, but not with Stiles.

The idea of blaming everything on his mental illness if he gets caught seems sort of like a cop-out to Stiles, but he figures what the hell? There’s probably at least a fifty-fifty shot that this _is_ all part of his mental illness.

More than anything else, Stiles knows that his father doesn’t want to lose him. He doesn’t understand it sometimes, but he remembers the look on his father’s face after his suicide attempt with crystal clarity. And Stiles has a feeling that if he can’t solve this, they might get close to that point. He can’t let it go. He doesn’t know why not, but he can’t. And all the medication, all the hospitalizations and the restraints that might not have actually happened, are not going to change that.

He has to know.

He thinks back to the text conversation with Chris. Surely there must have been something in that, which would have confirmed that some of this was real. But no. He never used Peter’s name, so it was totally possible that Chris had just thought the text had come from some random stalker. But then there was the photograph afterwards, of Peter in his cell. Surely that had been real? But he has no way to know for sure. He could have hallucinated it. He had been so paranoid about Chris finding him that he hadn’t kept the cloned phone, but had disposed of it in the sewers. He couldn’t go back and look at it now, or show it to anyone else to see if they could see the picture as well.

It might still be on Chris’ phone, but if he’s smart, he would have deleted it within minutes of getting it. Even if he manages to get a hold of Chris’ phone, he doubts it would still be there.

Could he make Chris request another? Get some solid evidence that he could show somebody else?

No. It’s too risky. He doesn’t care about making people believe him and help him. If he’s wrong, if he’s crazy, he’ll wind up locked away again. He’ll get Peter on his own, and then when he has the living, breathing person to bring to his father, then he’ll risk being proven insane. Nothing else will be worth that risk.

He needs to break into Eichen House.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

 

The first thing that Stiles is going to need is going to be a keycard. He doesn’t want to chance slipping in behind someone again. No, he needs a keycard, which means he needs an RFID emulator. And they don’t exactly sell those on Amazon. It takes several hours on Google to figure it out, and he has a suspicion that he might end up on some sort of federal watchlist. It might be easier to just steal a keycard, but he’s afraid that if he does that, they’ll reset all the locks.

Even worse, the keycard he copies has to be Brunski’s. He’s the only orderly that Stiles knows for sure has access to that wing. There are others, but he doesn’t know their names or how he would find them.

Fortunately, it’s a rare name, and there’s only one Brunski living in Beacon Hills. Stiles gets his RFID emulator ordered and settles in to watch.

Of course, before he does anything else, he has to face school again, and he’s not looking forward to it. His phone chimes on Saturday evening, and he sees that he has a text from Scott. ‘Hey! Mom told me u r out of the hospital. Come over 2morrow we can play COD’.

Stiles studies the text for a long minute, struggling with it. He wants to be friends with Scott. He wants _friends_. But he doesn’t trust Scott, can’t trust Scott. He can’t look at him without thinking of the things that Peter accused him of, without wondering whether or not Scott is lying or hiding things from him. Any time he sees him, he’ll just be wondering about that. And he doesn’t need that, not when he’s already so fucked up. He doesn’t need to try to get close to Scott anymore. He knows where Peter is; he just needs to get to him.

So he ignores the text. Which is undoubtedly a stupid thing to do, because he can’t hide from Scott. He can ignore Scott, which is exactly what he does when the teenager comes over the next day and knocks hopefully at his door. Which is even stupider, because after dinner that night, Tom comes into Stiles’ room and sits down on the foot of his bed. “So,” he says, “why don’t you want to see your friends?”

Stiles looks up, then away. Damn it. Scott told his mom, who called Tom. He reminds himself that these people care about him; these people are _worried_ about him. “Come on, Dad. What am I going to say?”

Tom pretends to mull this over before replying, “How about ‘what video game do you want to play’ or ‘did you see the game last night’?”

“It’s not that easy,” Stiles says. “I can’t just . . .” He sits up and pushes his hands through his hair. “It’s not just that I don’t want to have to answer a lot of awkward questions or that I feel ashamed of it, even though I won’t deny either of those things. It’s that . . . I don’t trust Scott anymore. And I know it’s all in my head and I know that makes me a shitty friend, but just looking at him reminds me of how fucked up I am. And there’s this sick part of me that blames him for it, that’s angry at him. None of it makes any sense and I, I just hope to God the Risperdal works and I’ll be fine with him in a week or two. But I just can’t do it right now.”

Tom sighs a little, then scoots closer to hook an arm around Stiles’ neck. He thinks about his response very carefully for a long moment, then says, “You know what? That sucks.”

Stiles laughs despite everything. “Yeah, Dad, yeah, it does,” he replies.

“But you do have to go to school tomorrow,” Tom says, “and no, we’re not going to home school you. You need social interaction.”

“I hate social interaction,” Stiles grumbles.

“No, you don’t,” Tom says. “You know, I do pay attention. And you’ve been happier since you made friends here. I think it’s good for you. Maybe you should just explain the problem to Scott. He’ll give you space if you need it.”

“Ugh, you make it sound like I’m breaking up with him,” Stiles says, and Tom shrugs. “I can’t. I mean, I can’t let him know how, how screwed up I am.”

“Well, son, you’re kind of putting yourself in a corner,” Tom says, although not unkindly. “You don’t want to see him, but you don’t want him to know you’re avoiding him, but you don’t want to explain why you’re avoiding him. I think you might have to choose the least of the evils here.”

“I don’t care if he knows I’m avoiding him,” Stiles says. “The problem is that he’s not letting me. And anything I say is going to make me look like a jerk, or crazy, or a crazy jerk.”

“Then avoid him as much as you can for a day or two, and talk about it with Ms. Morrell,” Tom says. “You have an appointment with her on Tuesday.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, with a sigh. Because that’s what he wants. An appointment with Morrell. He can’t say why he dislikes her so much. She’s just so self-assured, and it borders on smugness, and generally he wants to put his fist through her face.

The flaw in the plan is obvious, but there’s not much he can do about it, and of course Scott corners him the first thing the next day. “Hey! How are you? I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m okay,” Stiles says, trying to stay neutral, trying not to think about Peter. “Thanks.”

Scott lingers awkwardly for a minute. “Are you pissed at me about something?” he ventures.

“No, I just . . .” Stiles shuts his locker and sighs. “I’m angry at myself for being messed up, and I’m angry at you for being so understanding and for making me feel like a jerk for not wanting to be around anyone right now.”

“Oh,” Scott says. “Well, you shouldn’t feel like a jerk. I mean. It’s not – ”

“Don’t,” Stiles says. “God damn it, just – just don’t, okay? I know it’s not my fault. My dad has been hammering that into my head since I was ten years old. Knowing that doesn’t fucking help, okay? I hate the fact that it’s not my fault, because if it was, at least I would have someone to blame. Instead, my only option is to be angry at the universe, and let me tell you how far that doesn’t get me. I just – I just want to have friends and be normal but instead I get all paranoid and suspicious and I don’t know what’s real and what’s not and I’m going to ruin this like I ruin everything. We’ve moved four times since my mom died and three of those were because I couldn’t cope with my fucking life. Every two or three years my dad has to uproot everything, find a new job, say goodbye to his new friends, and move us again because I can’t cope. I don’t know why the hell I thought things would be different here. Actually they have been different. This is like a _record_ slide into insanity for me. Normally I can make it a couple months, but no, not in Beacon Hills. I don’t know why I even bother trying.”

He has to stop and take a few deep breaths. Scott’s standing there in silence, just letting him rant. Finally, quietly, Scott says, “Can I just tell you one thing? It’s stupid, but I think it might help.”

Stiles leans back against his locker, suddenly too tired to be angry. “Sure. Why the fuck not.”

“Uh, the winter dance is next week,” Scott says. “Allison asked if I wanted to go. With her and Isaac. Together, like, the three of us.” He tries for a smile. “I know it’s kind of awkward and a lot of people might give us shit for it, but I, I’m excited to have the chance to try for something new with her. I think it’ll be good, even if people think it’s weird. And I know that wouldn’t have happened without you nudging both of us towards it. So you don’t ruin everything, Stiles. Instead you, you un-ruined something. You helped us make something new.”

Stiles sits down right where he is in the hallway. He feels like the world’s biggest asshole. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” Scott sits down across from him. “I mean, you needed to get it off your chest, that’s cool. I can take it.”

“Everything’s so messed up,” Stiles says, and he just wants to cry all of a sudden. “I keep seeing things that aren’t real and sometimes I think the people I care about are lying to me and I have no idea what happened to me at the hospital, like, there are a few days that are so foggy from the drugs that I, I can’t even be sure of what was real there and what wasn’t. I just, I just want to not have to deal with all of this for a little while, and the last thing I want to do is try to focus on fucking history and math.”

Scott glances around and a conspiratorial smile crosses his face. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s cut class.”

“Hah, you? Have you ever cut class in your life?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, last year on Allison’s birthday,” he says. “Come on, let’s go. We can go down to Dave and Buster’s and play arcade games and eat pizza.”

It’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard and he doesn’t trust Scott but he does, and it doesn’t make any sense at all. He laughs suddenly. What the hell. He’s crazy. “Okay,” he says, and the two of them get up and head out the door. But he does text his father, because he doesn’t want him panicking when the school calls. ‘I’m skipping school. Going to the arcade with Scott. His idea not mine. Just want to be normal for a while.’

A few minutes later, his father texts him back to say, ‘You’re grounded’, but then he adds, ‘thanks for telling me’, so Stiles figures he’s not in too much trouble.

The ridiculous thing is, it actually works. They play arcade games and laser tag and he actually winds up feeling better. Everything’s still a clusterfuck, but maybe it’s one he can handle. He just needs to compartmentalize, that’s all. When he’s at school or with his father, he’s going to have to try to be normal. When he’s with Scott, he’ll trust Scott. When he’s by himself, that’s when he’ll trust Peter. That’s when he’ll get the work done.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So,” Marin Morrell says the next day, moments after Stiles has plunked into the chair across from her, “how are you feeling, Stiles?”

Stiles gives a little shrug. He doesn’t want to talk to her, doesn’t want to see her. He’s disgruntled about the psychological and psychiatric profession in general. Dr. Melcher only agreed to taper off his Zyprexa if they increased his Risperdal. Stiles grudgingly agreed, mostly because he had stopped taking the Risperdal as soon as he got out of Eichen House. He doesn’t need these stupid anti-psychotics. They don’t help and they make him feel terrible. “Okay, I guess,” he says. He does feel guilty about not telling his father he had stopped taking the Risperdal. He had promised he wouldn’t do that sort of thing again. But he can’t find a way to tell him without winding up in Eichen House again, and that’s something he won’t risk.

“Did you have any trouble starting back at school?”

“Nope,” Stiles says, fiddling with the strings at the end of his hoodie.

Morrell seems to see that asking yes or no questions isn’t going to get her anywhere. “What would you like to talk about today?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says.

“There must be something,” Morrell says, with that smile that always gets Stiles’ back up.

“Okay,” he says, and ponders. “Yeah, okay. I want you to tell me what happened at Eichen House. My memories are all fucked up and I really have no idea if even ten percent of what I remember is accurate. But you were there, so, why don’t you tell me all about it.”

“Okay, Stiles,” Morrell says. “You seemed very unhappy the first couple days. It was clear that you didn’t want to be there. And of course that’s very understandable. You were especially upset with Eichen House’s restrictions, and the fact that you weren’t allowed to call your father. Your third night at the facility, you managed to trick the orderlies into thinking you had taken your nightly medication when you hadn’t. You got out of bed; I’m not sure why but it might have been to try to find a phone and call your dad. One of the orderlies found you out of bed and tried to get you to return to your room. You tried to attack him, and he restrained you and gave you an injection of Haldol to calm you down. You were very disoriented the next several days, probably because of the changes in your medication. You were having continuous hallucinations and paranoid delusions about the staff trying to keep you captive or force medications on you. A few days later, you calmed down, and the doctor decided to send you home rather than keep you longer, since your condition was clearly very agitated by the surroundings.”

Stiles listens to all of this. “You were there, huh? Those days that I was out of it?”

“Yes, I was, several times a day.”

“So I wasn’t actually restrained? Not for any of it?”

“Only briefly, after you were combative with the orderly,” Morrell says.

“And they weren’t actually giving me extra drugs to put me in a more receptive frame of mind so I’d listen to what I was saying?”

“No, Stiles,” Morrell says.

Stiles thinks all of this over very carefully before he says, “Okay. I believe you. Intellectually. But emotionally, I still feel like you, you were an accomplice to all of the really awful shit I went through. So I really don’t want to talk to you today, Ms. Morrell, and I might not want to talk to you for a few days. And I’m sure this is all part of my persecution complex and my paranoid delusions. Maybe after the Risperdal has really kicked in, I’ll think you’re a great gal. But for today I think I’m just going to sit here and do my homework.”

“Stiles,” Morrell says patiently, “you’ll get out of this what you put into it.”

“I’m not saying I’ll never talk to a shrink again,” Stiles says. “I just don’t want to talk you, today.”

“You don’t think your father would be disappointed to hear that?” Morrell asks.

“Is – is that – are you threatening me?” Stiles asks, torn between anger and amusement. “Are you going to go tattle on me to – you know what? Fuck this.” He takes his cell phone out and punches the screen with vicious abandon. His father answers on the second ring. “Hey, Dad, sorry to bug you at work, got a sec?” he asks.

“Yes . . .” his father says warily, because he knows where Stiles is, and clearly suspects that this phone call doesn’t bode well.

Somewhat brightly, Stiles informs him, “Ms. Morrell would like you to know that I don’t plan on talking to her today, because my persecution complex hasn’t been cured yet. I’m calling you to save her the trouble, since she obviously thinks that a) you and I don’t talk to each other, and b) guilt trips still work on me.”

Tom lets out an explosive sigh. “For God’s sake – just come home, Stiles, okay? We’ll get you a new therapist if you dislike her that much.”

“’Kay!” Stiles says, and hangs up. He looks Morrell dead in the eye and says, “My dad says you’re fired.”

Morrell’s expression is impassive, almost opaque, as Stiles gets to his feet and grabs his backpack. He’s sure that she’s about to make some parting quip, but she doesn’t. She just watches him go.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So,” Lydia says, two days later, while his head is swimming with all the research into Eichen House that he’s been doing, “I have a question for you.”

Stiles glances over as he gets his books out of his locker. He feels strangely nervous. Sometimes Lydia reminds him of a shark. “Uh . . . okay?”

“Do you want to go to the Winter Dance with me?” she asks, and he blinks at her, surprised. He’s never been asked out on a date before, let alone by someone like Lydia. “Just as friends. I really want to go, to keep an eye on Allison, but if I go stag I’ll have to fend off grabby assholes all evening. If I have a date, I’ll only have to fend them off _most_ of the evening.”

“Oh, sure,” Stiles says. “That sounds like fun. I think.”

Lydia gives a shrug. “I wouldn’t go if it weren’t for the whole thing with Allison. Last year’s dance was a disaster, my boyfriend had just dumped me and . . . a lot of stuff was going on back then. But she’s really nervous about how to handle Scott and Isaac. I think she’s afraid she’ll accidentally insult one of them and the whole thing will come crashing around her ears.”

“Well, there’s stuff to think about ahead of time,” Stiles agrees. “Like, who gets to pick her up? Who get to take her home? Who gets the first dance?”

Lydia nods. “I’ll tell her to think about that stuff. Talk it over with them.”

“The key to any healthy relationship is communication,” Stiles says, thinks of all the secrets he’s keeping from his father, and immediately feels guilty.

“I wouldn’t know,” Lydia says dryly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a healthy relationship.”

Stiles shrugs. “You’re in one with Allison. Not all relationships are romantic.”

“I suppose so,” Lydia says. She sighs a little and says, “Thank you. I don’t know how you got through to her when I couldn’t.”

“Maybe she just needed an outsider,” Stiles says. “You know, someone who hadn’t been here when it all happened, an objective opinion. You’re her best friend, so, you’re biased in her favor. She needed someone who wasn’t to tell her it was okay to be happy.”

“You might be right about that,” Lydia says. “But still. I owe you one.”

“I’ll remember that next time I have to miss a week of school,” Stiles jokes, and Lydia rolls her eyes at him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The thing is, he’s coming to an uncomfortable conclusion that there’s no way to break into Eichen House from the outside. Once he’s inside, he’ll be able to get into the secure ward, as long as he has a key card. From there, getting Peter out might be a little tricky, but he thinks it’s doable. He’s managed to get a copy of the building’s blueprints from the zoning commission, but the secure ward isn’t on them. Still, there has to be an exit somewhere.

But it’s still a mental hospital. It’s very secure. The front gate only opens if you’re paged in by somebody on the inside. Every back door, side door, and loading dock will be locked up tight and be monitored by cameras. On the way out, when all they have to do is run, Peter can break down the door and they’ll be out of there. But on the way in?

The only way he’s getting into Eichen House is if he’s a patient there.

As much as going back into Eichen House is the absolute last thing he wants to do, it opens up some interesting possibilities. If he can find a way to document or record the way things are there – without people convincing him it’s all a paranoid delusion – he can get them in all kinds of trouble and kill two birds with one stone. So he’s been thinking about that, making quiet preparations while he waits for the pieces of his RFID emulator to come in.

“When we get out, we’re going to need a place to go,” he says, pacing around Peter’s cell. It’s one of the werewolf’s bad days, and he’s huddled in the corner, watching him. Stiles is starting to tell which bad days are caused by drugs and which are caused by encounters with the three-eyed man. This is clearly the latter. Physically there’s no difference, whereas the drugs make him sweaty and uncoordinated, even in the dreams. But he has trouble talking and won’t take his eyes off Stiles, no matter where he goes. “Do you still have your apartment?”

“Can’t go there,” Peter murmurs. “Gerard knows where it is.”

“Right, right,” Stiles says, and grimaces. “Look, this is kind of stupid, but I – I need money. I’m just a kid. I spent almost everything I had saved up getting the cell phone clone and the burner, and I don’t even have them anymore.”

Peter’s head bobs a little. “Plenty at my place. Just – be careful. Might be traps.” He tells Stiles where it is and where the money will be.

Stiles heads over the next day after school. His father is working swing shift and won’t be home until late. It’s an apartment in a building downtown. He hovers until he sees someone preparing to go in, and grabs the door after them. Peter’s apartment is on the third floor. He’s not the type to keep a spare key under a flower pot, but Stiles discovers that, as Peter had predicted, the door isn’t locked. Gerard hadn’t been able to lock it when he had left because he didn’t have a key, so, not being particularly concerned with Peter’s belongings, he had just walked away and left it unlocked.

The place is a mess. There are books and belongings everywhere. The cushions have all been torn apart. Gerard had clearly ransacked it, looking for God-only-knew-what. The first two stashes of money that Peter had kept are gone. But the third is still there, in a secret drawer inside Peter’s desk. It’s ten thousand dollars in crisp fifties, rubber banded together. More than enough.

It occurs to him, as he sits there on Peter’s floor, that this is hard evidence. Proof that he’s been talking to Peter. He could take this to his father, tell him that Peter had told him where it is. But the temptation is gone almost as soon as it surfaces. He remembers how the people at Eichen House had twisted things. He remembers how his father had heard his rambling conspiracy theory and immediately assumed he was having an episode, even though parts of what he was saying were undeniably true. He doesn’t blame his father for that. But nothing short of Peter Hale’s living, breathing body confirming what Stiles said was good enough.

Peter is pissed to hear about the way his place has been ransacked, and seems more concerned about his books than about the money. The bulk of his fortune is secreted away in an actual vault, which Gerard Argent hopefully knows nothing about. Since Stiles doesn’t have a lot else to do while he’s waiting for the parts of the RFID emulator to come in, he goes over and cleans up a bit, reorganizes the books and takes an inventory for Peter. A couple of his rare and expensive volumes are missing, but the majority of them are still there.

“I wonder if Eichen House is actually haunted,” Stiles says thoughtfully, lying on Peter’s floor and staring at the ceiling. “It’s just – it has this aura to it. It’s dark and, and rotten.”

“Haunted by what?” Peter asks, interested.

“I guess back in the forties it was used as a hospital,” Stiles says. “There was a riot at a nearby internment camp – you know, for Japanese-Americans? – and a bunch of people died. Some guys here were stealing the medicine that was supposed to be used for them, and the Japanese people found out about it.”

“Interesting,” Peter says. “It’s certainly possible. It’s also possible that the supernatural prison affects the atmosphere.”

“Yeah. It’s just like . . .” Stiles struggles to find the words for what he means. “I’ve been in psychiatric hospitals before. The stuff they do at Eichen House isn’t just weird, it’s actually illegal. And I can’t help but wonder why none of the doctors, none of the orderlies, ever stop and question that.”

“Maybe some of them do,” Peter says.

“Wonder what happens to them,” Stiles says. He sighs. “But as soon as I get Brunski’s keycard copied – not that I have any idea how I’m going to do that yet – we should be good to go. Are you going to be able to break down the door on the way out?”

“It’ll depend on how much wolfsbane they’ve given me,” Peter says.

“We’ll have to wait for a day that they haven’t given you much,” Stiles says.

Peter gives him a look. “Are you all right with that? This place – it isn’t good for you. I know you don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.”

“I don’t,” Stiles agrees. “But if that’s what’s ‘necessary’, then that’s exactly how long I’ll be here. Besides, the longer I’m there, the more time I have to gather evidence that Eichen House is the worst, so I can get it put the fuck out of business.”

“Mm hm.” Peter shuffles over to him, and then crawls up his body, his hands and knees on either side of Stiles. “You are amazing,” Peter says, once they’re on eye level. “Did you know that?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles murmurs.

“None of that, now,” Peter says, catching his gaze and holding it. “After everything you’ve been through, it’s a wonder that you aren’t committed permanently, to be honest. But even though you don’t always know what’s real, you still know what you want and how to get it.” His head dips a little further so they’re only an inch apart. “And that,” he says, “is amazing.”

Stiles swallows and whispers, “Okay,” just before Peter’s lips touch his. It’s a slow, easy kiss, and lasts only a few seconds before Peter pulls away and starts nuzzling at his jaw, then his neck. Unthinking, Stiles lets his arms come up and around Peter, getting a handful of Peter’s shirt in his grip. He can feel the pressure of Peter’s thigh against his groin, and it feels really, _really_ good.

He wakes up with sticky sheets again and feels surprisingly okay with that.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

“Okaaaaay, I’m coming out,” Stiles says. He feels kind of silly. It’s the first time he’s worn a suit in years, possibly since his mother’s funeral when he was nine. He can’t get the tie done and kind of wishes that he’d gotten a clip on. As soon as his father had heard that he was going to the Winter Dance with an actual girl, he’d gone into parental overdrive, insisting that they get Stiles a nice outfit to wear. “I look like a dork,” Stiles says, coming out of his bedroom, carrying the tie.

Tom smiles when he sees his son. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Looking like a dork?”

“Dressing like a man,” Tom says, giving him a gentle cuff upside the head. “Here, I’ll show you how to do the tie.”

He comes over to stand behind Stiles, getting the tie underneath his collar and showing Stiles how to do the knot. Stiles leans against him, soaking up the warmth of his father’s body. It feels nice to be so close to him. “Are you crying?”

“I might be getting a little emotional,” Tom admits, letting Stiles go and turning him around. “I just, God, I wish your mother was here to see this.”

Stiles absolutely does not want to get emotional about this. “Dad. It’s a school dance, which I’m going to with a friend. There’s no need to get weepy. Save the tears for when I get an actual date, or God willing, graduate from high school.”

“No reason I have to hoard my tears,” Tom says. “I can make more.” But he knuckles absently at his eyes and says, “I’m glad you’re going. Even if it’s just as friends.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says. He’s never had an actual date. No girl has ever asked him out, and he’s never been confident enough in himself to ask anyone himself, or ever really had any interest. So this would technically be his first date, if not for the fact that Lydia says they’re only going as friends.

“I mean it,” Tom says. “I know you’ve had a hard time lately, but I’m really proud of you for not letting it get you down.”

“Ugh, Dad, stop talking about feelings and shit,” Stiles says. He feels guilty about how he’s tricking his father, pretending to be normal, when on the side he’s doing a bunch of crazy stuff and talking to some guy in his dreams who might or might not be real. Then again, although he might be doing that, the compartmentalization thing is working great. He’s doing well in school, he’s hanging out with his friends, he’s going to the dance. So he might be a lunatic, but at least he’s a _functioning_ lunatic. Maybe that’s the best that he can ask for.

Even knowing that it’s not a date, he has a moment of pause when Lydia shows up to pick him up. She looks fantastic, her strawberry blonde hair done up in an amazing braided bun, wearing a dress the color of the ocean. “Hey, uh, Dad, this is Lydia Martin,” he says, because as of yet his father hasn’t met any of his friends besides Scott.

“Nice to meet you, Deputy,” Lydia says, with a charming smile and a firm handshake.

Tom smiles, a genuine smile in return, and says, “Here, let me snap a quick picture.”

“Daaaaaad,” Stiles moans, but he stands with his arm around Lydia’s back and even manages to avoid the dreaded Hover Hand while his father takes the picture.

“You two kids have a good time,” Tom says, and they head out.

They’re picking Allison up, because that was the easiest way to circumvent the whole ‘who gets to pick her up/drop her off’ problem. Of course, Allison could have driven herself, but Lydia insisted on picking her up, not wanting her to go alone. Scott and Isaac will drive over together and meet them there. First dance was determined by a coin flip, after five minutes of Scott and Isaac saying ‘no, you’, ‘no, _you_ ’, until Lydia got exasperated.

Allison looks great, too, in a lavender dress and with her hair down, smiling brilliantly as Lydia pulls up. Her father is sitting on the porch with her, waiting. Stiles gets out of the car to offer Allison his arm, and sees Chris absently rubbing at the noose around his neck. It’s worse now than it was before. The rope has chafed away almost all the skin there, and his throat is raw and bleeding. Stiles takes a deep breath and looks away, forcing his smile to stay on his face.

“Be home by eleven,” Chris says to Allison, and leans over to kiss her on the cheek.

“See you later,” she says, leaning into it, before getting into the car. Stiles lets her have the front seat. “I’m so nervous,” she says, her hands wrinkling at her dress.

“Don’t be,” Stiles says. “Those two guys love the hell out of you. I’m pretty sure they’ll forgive you for anything that goes wrong. Just dance with them, drink some punch, and try to divide your attention as evenly as you can. Don’t sweat it.”

“Also, Scott and Isaac have to dance at least one slow dance together,” Lydia says.

“Why?” Allison says.

“Because I say so, that’s why,” Lydia replies.

Scott and Isaac are waiting outside, Scott pacing nervous and Isaac hunched up a little, his hands in his pockets. He straightens up when he sees Allison and Scott stops pacing. They must have discussed this – Stiles is willing to bet they _rehearsed_ it – because they bow in unison and then each offer her an arm. Everyone is blushing like an idiot as they turn and head into the dance hall.

The music is fast, ‘Wild Thing’, so they all wind up on the dance floor as a group. Stiles has absolutely zero knowledge of how to dance, so he tries to imitate the others and most likely winds up looking like a fool. He doesn’t really care. He’s suffered worse things.

The first slow dance comes on, and Allison dances with Isaac. Stiles is dancing with Lydia, but they keep half an eye on Scott to make sure he doesn’t look too forlorn. He doesn’t. If anything, he looks moogly-eyed, drinking punch and watching Allison and Isaac with a dreamy smile.

Things are going surprisingly well, and Stiles starts to relax and actually enjoy himself. He dances a few times with Lydia and watches in amusement as she shuts down any of the obnoxious jocks who try to drag her onto the dance floor.

Scott and Isaac wind up slow-dancing to Whitney Houston, and they both look pretty stiff and uncomfortable for the first thirty seconds, like they don’t know where to put their hands. Then Isaac leans in and says something that must be one of his snark-tastic comments, because Scott starts laughing so hard that his knees buckle. He leans against Isaac, pressing his forehead against Isaac’s shoulder. Isaac wraps his arms around Scott’s waist, flushing pink but grinning like he just won the lottery.

“Damn, that’s cute,” Lydia says.

“Huh? What?” Allison asks vaguely, not tearing her eyes away from the couple on the dance floor, and both Lydia and Stiles snicker.

“You’d better be careful with them,” Stiles tells her. “Make sure they don’t waste all their energy boinking each other and forget about you.”

“Whaaaat, shut up,” Allison says, blushing furiously and punching Stiles in the arm. “They can have sex if they want to, whatever.”

“And by ‘whatever’, I hope you mean ‘I’m going to be holding the camera,’” Lydia says.

Allison has to excuse herself to the restroom.

“We’re terrible,” Lydia says, snickering.

About an hour has passed,  when Stiles is dancing with Lydia, and he suddenly feels her go tense against him. He twists around automatically and flinches away from the zombie shuffling through the crowd. He realizes just before he blurts something out that it’s Gerard Argent. “What’s _he_ doing here,” Lydia mutters.

“Not a fan?” Stiles asks, trying to stay casual. It’s difficult with his pulse racing. In the dim ballroom, the figure had a lurking, dark quality to it that he’s seen before. Gerard is the monster he had seen outside the movie theater, not long after Stiles had arrived in town. Why had he been watching them?

“He doesn’t – ” Lydia’s words break off as she tugs him off the dance floor, obviously hoping to get to Allison before Gerard does. She’s sitting at one of the small tables, cozied up between Scott and Isaac.

Stiles watches as Gerard gets to them, watches those old wounds on Scott’s face and chest open up, watches Allison immediately put distance between herself and Scott. Gerard might have gotten Allison and Scott to help him capture Peter, but it’s clear that their ongoing relationship isn’t all roses.

“ – needed more chaperones,” Gerard is saying, as he and Lydia get within earshot. “Your father had to work, so I thought I would stop by.”

“Come spy on you, he means,” Lydia mutters.

Stiles grabs Lydia by the wrist and pulls her to a halt before they can get to the table. “Lydia. What is going on?”

“I’ll tell you later, just, just follow my lead, help me distract him,” Lydia says, pulling her arm back and rushing over. “Mr. Argent! Hi! You’ve met Stiles, right?”

Zombie Gerard gives Stiles a disinterested look. “Hello, Lydia,” he says. “I imagine you’re responsible for this, hm?”

“Actually, sir, it was my idea,” Stiles says. It’s obvious to him that Gerard absolutely hates the idea of polyamory, so he starts spitballing. “A competition, right? Like, each of them gets until the end of the dance to convince her of why he’s the one for her.”

Gerard looks moderately more interested. “Like old-fashioned suitors,” he says, and his face cracks into a gruesome smile. “So who’s winning?”

“Oh, it’s, uh, it’s much too early to tell,” Allison says.

“Really?” Lydia asks. “I thought Isaac was winning.”

Or maybe Gerard just hates Scott. “Isaac,” Stiles agrees. “Definitely Isaac.”

Isaac is flushed and nervous and it’s clear that absolutely everyone is uncomfortable with the situation. Gerard looks at Stiles and says, “Stilinski, isn’t it? The new deputy’s son? I heard you were just in Eichen House. Paranoid schizophrenia, isn’t it?”

“Grandpa,” Allison gasps, clearly stunned by this social faux pas.

“Actually, no,” Stiles says. He feels strangely calm, all the fear suddenly burned away by anger that somehow balances everything out. “I don’t meet all the criteria for schizophrenia. They’ve never actually been able to put a label on me. Mostly my problem is just with hallucinations. Like you, for example; half the time I look at you, you look like a zombie.”

Absolutely none of the teenagers know how to respond to that. Allison’s jaw is ajar and Scott looks like he’s in physical pain. Lydia’s jaw is set in a combination of anger and uncertainty, and Isaac is looking around like he’s trying to locate an exit.

“A zombie, huh?” Gerard seems amused.

“Yeah. Don’t you have terminal cancer?” Stiles asks, because if Gerard is going to be a rude asshole, he’ll have a long way to go before he can compete with Stiles. “That’s probably why. My subconscious likes to project onto my retinas.”

“Okay!” Scott rockets to his feet. “I promised Allison’s dad I would have her home by eleven, so uh, I think we’re going to go.”

Nobody points out that it’s only nine thirty. Scott practically hauls Allison away, with Isaac jogging after them, glancing over his shoulder. Gerard offers Stiles a thin smile, and then turns and follows them.

“Wow,” Lydia says. “I mean, just, wow.”

“Too far?” Stiles asks.

Lydia surprises him by laughing. “No. He totally deserved it. He’s always been an enormous asshole. He likes to show up at school or when Allison and I are out and about, just to ‘check in’. He’s very controlling. It got even worse after her mom died.”

Stiles can see why. If Gerard had doubts about Allison’s loyalty, if he thought they might regret helping him put Peter away. If Scott is a werewolf, Gerard won’t trust him, will never trust him. Especially since Peter is Scott’s alpha. Gerard is just quietly reminding them that he’s got his eye on them. That explains why he had been lurking after the movie they had all seen together.

He lets out a slow breath and looks at Lydia. “Anything you want to ask me?”

Lydia’s quiet for a minute before she turns to him and says, “Anything you want to _tell_ me?”

Stiles opens his mouth to say ‘no, not really’, but instead he says, “It started after my mom died. Just bad dreams at first. Then there was a school shooting when I was ten. They said I had post-traumatic stress disorder. I just saw monsters everywhere. But it never went away. In fact, it got worse as I got older. They’ve put me on every anti-psychotic known to man, but they never go away.”

“Have they considered a medical explanation?” Lydia asks, her tone matter-of-fact. “Temporal lobe epilepsy can cause hallucinations.”

“I don’t have seizures.”

Lydia shrugs. “Have you read _Hallucinations_ by Oliver Sacks? I’ll loan you my copy. It’s really a fascinating study.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “Not just for the book, but for not . . . freaking out.”

Another shrug. Then Lydia says, “Well, it looks like the dance is a bust. You want to get out of here? We can go get some coffee and talk about infrasound as a cause for ghost sightings.”

Stiles laughs. “Okay,” he says. “Sure.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

A week later, Stiles has a new burner phone and all the parts he needs of the RFID emulator. He starts putting that together. He still can’t get blueprints to Eichen House, but he’s walked around the place several times, aligning the outside with what he saw of the inside. There’s a side door that he’s fairly sure leads off the restricted wing. He takes pictures and sketches his own blueprints, keeping all of this hidden underneath his bed. He reads up on the different staff members. Peter’s books have information about the different kinds of wolfsbane and how to drain it from the system. Recovery will take two to three days, but he thinks the worst of it will be over after two.

Some of the books have information on the different kinds of magic. Apparently there’s more than one kind of person who can do magic, and the book breaks them down into categories: mage, sorcerer, magician. He reads up on the fascinating differences between Druids and Shamans and Darachs.

After some reading, he decides that he must be a mage. Mages have magic that’s internal, whereas sorcerers depend on objects (and magicians can only use objects previously imbued with magic by a sorcerer or mage). His magic is frequently referred to as The Sight, and is one hundred percent internal.

He learns that if he can learn to control The Sight, he can use it to see both the future and the past, although the books all warn that visions of the future can be unreliable. Mostly, The Sight is used to see the true nature of things, and to view the history of a place or an object. Not everything will cause a vision, the books tell him. It has to be a place or an object with significant emotion attached to it.

Stiles decides to practice. How hard can it be? He finds his mother’s wedding ring in his father’s bedroom, sits on the bed, and concentrates on Seeing.

He winds up with a vision of his parents’ wedding so clear that it’s as if he’s actually there, walking among the people. His head aches for hours afterwards, no matter how much Tylenol he takes, but he’s too excited to care. He’s learning. He’s _magic_.

Magic, the books tell him, is all about belief. Like Peter had said. The key to any kind of magic is simply believing that it can be done. Stiles reads about how to create illusions and how to affect physical objects by convincing them that they want to be something else. He tries both of these things, but nothing happens. Peter tells him not to worry about it. It takes practice. What he really needs is someone who can teach him. There’s only so much he’s going to be able to learn from books.

“Once I get out of here,” Peter tells him, “we’ll find someone who can show you what you can do.”

So that’s one more reason that Stiles is getting impatient to get Peter out of his prison cell, because really, who _wouldn’t_ want to be able to turn water into wine?

But they still don’t have a place to go, and he’s having trouble coming up with a solution for that. They can’t go back to Peter’s place. A motel room will draw too much attention. He’s too young to rent an apartment of his own. He has no idea how far he’ll be able to get Peter, depending on what sort of condition he’s in. And they can’t just live in the forest for a few days. It’s winter, and even in California, it gets cold at night.

“Hey,” he says one night, thinking this over, “you said most of your money was in a vault, right?”

“Mm,” Peter says. “Bearer bonds and the like. Why, do you need more?”

“No, I haven’t even used half of what I got from your apartment,” Stiles says. “I was thinking about where we’re going to go when we leave. How big is it? Is it under your name?”

“Interesting idea,” Peter says. “It would be cozy, but I think it’s doable. And no, it’s a hidden room, it’s not technically owned by anybody. No running water, though, no electricity. We’d need to get together some supplies.”

“I can do that, if you’ll tell me where it is,” Stiles says, and Peter does. “Under the high school? Really?” Stiles asks skeptically. In a way, it works well. The high school is on the edge of the preserve, so they can go through the woods from Eichen House, which lessens their chances of getting caught. He’ll have to swipe a key somehow so nobody notices that they broke in, but he thinks that’s manageable.

“The vault was there first,” Peter explains. “They built the high school over it. By ‘they’, I’m referring to my forebears.”

“That’s too bad,” Stiles says. “I thought you were going to say you had worked at the high school. You know, like, as a teacher. I bet you wore tweed, and a sweater vest, and little glasses . . .”

“You’ve put altogether too much thought into this fictional version of me,” Peter says, amused.

“You can’t put too much thought into a hot guy in a sweater vest,” Stiles informs him.

“I’ll wear one just for you when I get out of here,” Peter says, leaning over and nipping at Stiles’ earlobe. “A little sweater vest, a pair of glasses, and nothing else.”

“That would look more weird than sexy,” Stiles tells him, and Peter shrugs. “Okay, fine. I’ll go find your vault and get the keys to the kingdom.”

“You won’t be able to get in,” Peter says. “Only Hales, by blood, can open the vault door.”

“Shit,” Stiles says, thinking this over. He had hoped to lay in some supplies ahead of time. How is he supposed to schlep all the stuff they’ll need through the forest? They’re going to want food, and sleeping bags, and probably a variety of other things. If he can’t get into the vault proper until after he’s rescued Peter, where is he going to hide all this stuff?

There’s probably an unused storage closet or classroom somewhere in the high school, he decides. He’ll just have to find one.

Getting the key is easier than he had thought. All the teachers have keys to the building, and he focuses immediately on Finstock because he doubts the Coach keeps his keys on him when he’s running around the field. He could put someone’s eye out. So he waits for a day when he has gym class first thing, then tells Coach he doesn’t feel well. Coach gives him a pass to the nurse and says to get out of his face. Instead of going there, Stiles goes through the locker room and into Finstock’s office. It only takes two tries to find the drawer with his keys.

There’s a Wal-Mart only ten minutes away. Stiles asked his father if he could drive the Jeep for the day so he could bring a project to school, and made an impressive poster board display for a class he doesn’t have to avoid questions. He drives over and goes up to the counter to get the keys copied. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” the clerk asks.

Stiles gives him a disgusted look and says, “It’s Harriet Tubman Day, you racist ass-clown.”

The guy turns red and goes to copy the keys without another word, and Stiles is out of there long before the guy realizes that, as deserving as she is, Harriet Tubman does not have her own national holiday. He drives back to school, returns Finstock’s keys to his desk, and is back in class by third period with nobody the wiser.

After school, he zips home so his father can have the Jeep back – fortunately, he has swing shift, so it wasn’t a problem. Then he hangs out until evening, and walks back to school. It’s only three miles. No sweat. He reaches the school at eight PM and heads for the door by the cafeteria, because it’s closest to the woods. His brand new key works like a charm. The school is dark and a little bit creepy, but he has a flashlight. He just needs to look around and find a place to hide some stuff.

He finds it in a surprising place that turns out to be somewhat morbid. One of the chemistry labs is dark and dusty, and clearly hasn’t been used in months. He remembers as he’s leaving that one of Peter’s last victims had been a chemistry teacher, and he had been killed at the school. This isn’t an empty classroom; it’s an abandoned crime scene. The school had probably felt squeamish about installing a new teacher in, and had left it vacant, at least for the time being.

As soon as he touches the wall, he gets a violent vision of the teacher begging for mercy as Peter rips him apart. It takes effort to keep his dinner down. He reminds himself that Peter had had very good reasons to do what he did, that this teacher had been complicit in the murder of an entire family, in the murder of _children_. Stiles doesn’t know if he can love what Peter did, but he can definitely understand it. He knows that if anything ever happened to his father, he would want revenge just as bloody and terrible.

Regardless, the chemistry lab works for him. He has to wait until a few days later to get the Jeep again, and asks his father if he can borrow it to pick a few things up at the store. Tom’s birthday is coming up the next week, and he obviously thinks that Stiles is going out to find him a present. Stiles would feel guilty about that, if not for the fact that he had ordered his father’s birthday present ages ago. He gets in the Jeep and heads back to the Wal-Mart.

They’re going to be down in the vault for at least two or three days. He buys two sleeping bags and two pillows, and a battery powered lantern with some extra batteries. Then he buys some foam padding, since he’s not looking forward to sleeping on concrete.

He’s already been by Peter’s apartment again and grabbed some of his clothes and a pair of sneakers for him, along with his comb and his toothbrush and razor. He doesn’t know how long Peter will want to stay in the vault, but wants him to have anything he needs. He gets some food at the Wal-Mart, too, things that won’t need to be refrigerated or heated. Boxes of crackers, peanut butter, a bag of oranges, a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew. There’s one thing he’s going to need to heat up, though, and that’s water. Most of the recipes he’s found for the wolfsbane detoxification are for hot tea or poultices. He’s gotten the herbs that he can’t get locally on the internet, but he’ll still need hot water.

After some fruitless looking around the camping section and searching on the internet, he comes to the conclusion that mankind has not yet developed a battery-powered coffee maker. He buys a kettle and a camp stove and after a few minutes to think, a carbon monoxide detector, because he doesn’t know what sort of ventilation the vault has and that would be a really stupid way to die.

He lugs all of it back to the school and tucks it away in the dusty chemistry lab. He’s installed a lock on the door, just to be on the safe side. Nobody has been in there recently, but he doesn’t want to take chances.

Once that’s done, he leans against the door for a long time. He’s almost done. He can’t leave this stuff for too long or risk being discovered. It’s time to kick the plan into gear.

In the woods just outside Eichen House, he finds a hollow tree and digs a hole next to it. Into the hole goes the things he’ll need immediately after leaving the facility – clothes and shoes for himself and Peter, a flashlight, the keys to the high school, and his new burner phone. He’s installed a police scanner app on it, and hopes that the vault won’t keep him from getting wi-fi. He adds in a couple bottles of water, wraps it all up in a tarp, and buries it. Then he hides the shovel in the hollow tree.

Now all he needs is the keycard.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles has debated for weeks on how to get into Brunski’s house. He knows that the ID badge doubles as a keycard, so he doesn’t need to get his wallet. That means he could do it at night. Set off his fire alarm, break into his car, maybe. But he’s afraid of getting caught, which would mean getting his father in trouble. So he considers other options, distractions, diversions. He needs Brunski out of the house for at least a few minutes, longer if possible, in case he needs to search for the badge. And he needs to be able to get through the door, so it would be helpful if he didn’t lock it.

He’s pretty sure that nobody would be happy with his solution – except Peter, who was delighted, laughing for the first time.

He has Brunski arrested.

It’s actually very easy. He goes to the sheriff’s station to drop off his father’s lunch. The only reason his father caught him the first time was because he was looking up files he had no business looking up. But there’s nothing noteworthy about skimming through the current open cases. He settles on one almost immediately, the disappearance of a young woman a few days previous. He jots down the information and leaves the station.

“You’re lucky your father didn’t change the password,” Peter comments, when Stiles is telling him about this afterwards.

Stiles shakes his head. “He wouldn’t. I knew he wouldn’t. If I use his computer again – he wants to know. It’ll mean that I’m losing my shit again. So he left it the same, left me access.”

“Your father is a very intelligent man, in his own way,” Peter muses, and Stiles doesn’t reply.

After he has all the information, it’s a piece of cake. He calls the anonymous tip line from a pay phone downtown and says that a certain Ray Brunski had been aggressively hitting on the missing girl at her day job at the yoga studio.

It won’t stick, of course, but he doesn’t need it to, doesn’t even want it to. If Brunski actually got charged with a crime, he could get fired, lose his security clearance, and then Stiles doesn’t know if the keycard would still work. But it gets him out of the house. Sober looking uniformed police officers turn up and escort him away for questioning. Brunski is blustering and pissed off, and although he turns and locks his front door behind him, it doesn’t occur to him to go around and lock the back. Stiles hops the fence and goes inside. The badge is on a side table in the kitchen. He copies it and is out of the house in less than three minutes.

He takes the blank key home and gets out one of his favorite books, a worn copy of Ender’s Game. He uses an Exacto knife to cut out the last page, which is blank, and then glues it to the back cover with the key hidden behind it. It would work better with a hardcover, but they won’t let him bring one of those into the ward. This is good enough. They barely looked at his books last time.

Some time later, he falls into an exhausted sleep, and finds himself lying on the floor of Peter’s cell.

“Is everything ready?” Peter asks.

Stiles thinks it all through. The key card. The exit strategy. The clothes in the woods. The supplies and the vault. The police scanner. The wolfsbane detox. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I have everything.”

Peter’s voice is quiet and excited. “When?”

“Next time my father has the right shift,” Stiles says. “Gotta do the timing right.”

“When will that be?”

“Next Wednesday.”

“That long?”

“He has the right shift on this Friday, but I can’t – ” Stiles’ voice breaks. “I can’t do that. Friday is his birthday. I can’t make him commit me on his birthday.”

Peter snarls. “I’ve waited long enough.”

“Do you think I haven’t?” Stiles asks. “Do you think I want to wait? I want to get you out of there so I, I can prove once and for all that I’m _not_ a complete lunatic. I’m still half crazy thinking that that’s what I’m going to find out, but God damn it, I committed to this and I’m going to see it through. But my father is my family, my _only_ family. He’s all I have and, and I’m all he has, too. I _hate_ hurting him like this. I hate the fact that he’s going to be worried sick over me, _as always_. I’m doing this for you, and I’m doing this for me, but I’m doing it for him, too. Let him have his God damned birthday.”

After a moment, Peter lets out a slow breath. “All right,” he says. “You’re right.”

Stiles angrily wipes the tears off his cheeks and says, “Let’s go over it one more time,” and Peter agrees.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, as you might expect, triggery for all the Eichen House things. ;_;

 

Under normal circumstances, Stiles would consider his father’s reluctance to admit him back into Eichen House to be a good thing. A wonderful thing. But it also means that he can’t just ask to be readmitted. No, he’s going to have to stage some sort of breakdown, and it can’t be small. He hates that idea, because he hates the idea of making his father worry about him. He reminds himself that this is going to be over soon. Either he’ll prove that Peter’s real, or he’ll prove that he really is insane, whereupon he supposes he’ll just take whatever medication they give him and shut up about it.

He’s not going to break down in public, not after what happened in Missoula. After a few days, he decides that the easiest thing to do is just – exactly what he wants to do. The knowledge in Peter’s books has scared the everloving crap out of him, and it gives him a few ideas. He spends a few days acting quiet and suspicious, ducking his father’s attempts to talk to him.

He chooses a Wednesday to put his plan into action, because that’s when his father has the right shift for it, the early shift. He gets home at around two PM to find that Stiles has basically rearranged the house. He’s nailed mistletoe up over all the doors and windows, written a bunch of symbols on the wall in paint, and moved half the furniture to create a fort in the living room.

When the front door opens, Stiles hears his father’s footsteps stop dead as he takes in the destruction. “Stiles?” he calls out, his tone cautious.

Stiles pokes his head out from the blanket fort and says, “Over here,” waving at his father urgently.

Frowning, Tom walks over, and at Stiles’ frantic beckoning, he crawls into the fort. “Stiles, what – ”

“Shhhh,” Stiles says. “They’ll hear us. You have to be quiet, okay?” He looks around as if he’s searching for their mysterious adversaries. Then he glances at his father and nearly blows the whole thing. Tom just looks – small, and sad, and frightened. In that instant, Stiles thinks about how hard this must be for his father, to see Stiles like this, to wonder if he’s losing him for good this time. He _hates_ hurting his father like this. But there’s no other way. This is something he has to do.

“Okay, Stiles,” Tom says quietly, after he recovers. “Who are we hiding from?”

“There are so many monsters around here,” Stiles says. “I’ve been reading about it. There are werewolves in Beacon Hills. And there’s this tree in the forest that draws in all the power, like, it’s some sort of mystical wellspring. Beacon Hills is a super dangerous place. But it’s okay, because I’ve made sure we’re safe. The mistletoe over the doors and the protection spells on the walls. We’re going to be perfectly safe here.”

“Okay,” Tom says again, drawing Stiles into an embrace, rocking him back and forth. “Okay, Stiles.”

“Let me put one on you, too,” Stiles says. “See, I drew one on myself,” he adds, pulling aside the collar of his shirt so his father can see the symbol he drew there with a Sharpie. “It’s to guard against demonic possession. There are so many people that have demons inside them and they don’t even know it. Isn’t that the scariest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Sure is,” Tom says, and he allows Stiles to draw the symbol on the back of his hand. Stiles beams up at him like everything is going to be okay now.

They sit there for a few minutes while Stiles rambles about the things in the books he’s read, the different kinds of monsters. He throws in a reference to Peter and the dreams occasionally, saying that’s how he knows about this stuff. Tom just sits there and nods and listens, letting him get it out of his system, before he finally says, “How about we go see the doctor, okay, Stiles? I think we should tell him about all this.”

“What? No,” Stiles says, frowning. “He won’t believe me. He’s just a jerk. Besides, we can’t leave the house. It isn’t safe.”

“Uh huh,” Tom says, and then asks a few more questions about the demons and the monsters, and casually brings up the doctor a couple more times. Stiles gradually allows himself to be brought around to the idea, saying that he supposes it’s important that he gets the word out to everyone and maybe the doctor can help him do that.

He doesn’t know what Tom says to Melcher’s office – his father calls from the bathroom so Stiles won’t hear – but whatever it is, it gets them an immediate appointment. Half an hour later, he’s sitting in Melcher’s office, drumming his feet absently against the floor and still rambling on about werewolves and conspiracies.

“Look,” Tom says, the instant Melcher brings up Eichen House, “is there any way – any way at all – we can do this without another admission? He just – he really didn’t do well in Eichen House last time.”

Melcher gives him a reassuring smile and says, “He obviously had a very bad reaction to the medication we tried him on, and I think that was responsible for most of the trouble, not Eichen House itself. As for not admitting him . . . well, to be blunt, I don’t think it would be safe to leave him alone. So unless you plan on taking indefinite leave from work . . .”

Tom grimaces. Stiles knows they can’t afford that, and it could cost him his job. He allows his eyes to fill with tears that aren’t all feigned and ducks his head. “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry, I’m screwing everything up again . . .”

“No, of course not,” Tom immediately says, rubbing his back. “This isn’t your fault, you know that. I just . . . what do you think, Stiles? Do you think you would be okay in Eichen House?”

Stiles swallows and looks up. “Will you visit me this time?” he asks pathetically.

“Every damn day,” Tom says.

“And you’ll – do you promise you won’t take the mistletoe down? It’ll keep you safe.”

“I won’t,” Tom says. “If that’ll make you feel better, I’ll leave it up.”

Stiles sniffles and says, “Then okay. I – I’ll be okay.”

Tom clearly doesn’t like it, and for a few minutes Stiles is afraid that he really is going to throw Stiles in the car and drive back to Missoula so he can go into the hospital there. But after some encouraging platitudes from Dr. Melcher and a few more teary reassurances from Stiles, he allows himself to be persuaded. Stiles asks if they can go home so he can grab a few of his books, and his father says sure.

Another hour later, they’re doing the check-in process at Eichen House, and his father is arguing with the doctor about the seventy-two hour period without calls and visits. He starts quoting laws and statutes about why that’s illegal with minor patients and that they have no right to try to enforce it. Stiles thinks about the darkness underneath the place and watches in fascination while they argue his father around to it over and over again. He’ll resist and start fighting about it again, but then they’ll just keep talking him around to it, and the coils of darkness that live at Eichen House wrap around Tom tighter and tighter, squeezing the resistance out of him.

Eventually, he agrees that he’ll wait the seventy-two hours, and Stiles doesn’t care because he plans to be out of Eichen House by then, if all goes well. He holds his breath while the orderly goes through his things, but he doesn’t even open the books, let alone notice what Stiles has taped inside them. Stiles is checked in and settled into Eichen House by the time dinner is being served. Now all he has to do is wait for Peter to tell him when the time is right.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The time is not right. Peter is sluggish and nigh incoherent in his dream that night, meaning that he had just gotten a dose of wolfsbane and probably a visit from Valack along with it. He can’t help but wonder if his admission is the reason for that, but overall he’s okay with that – not with the treatment of Peter, but at least with the timing. That means he’ll have a few days for Eichen House to treat him terribly before it’s time to go.

He has to be careful with it, of course. If he gets drugged to the gills, he won’t be of any use to anybody. But one thing he’s noticed is that Eichen House has a lot of cameras. That makes sense. There’s no such thing as privacy in a mental institution. And he’s curious about something. As soon as they’re in free time, he walks over to the door to the secure wing and just stares at it. He doesn’t make any attempt to go in. Just stares.

It takes less than two minutes for Brunski to go over to him and demand, “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “I’m just standing.”

“You can’t stand here,” Brunski says.

“Why not?” Stiles stays calm. “You don’t want me to see inside?” he adds, and Brunski immediately slams him up against the wall and sticks a syringe full of Haldol into his ass. Great therapeutic technique, Stiles thinks foggily before he hits the ground.

He wakes up strapped to the bed, but doesn’t struggle. Morrell is there, and asks why the door bothers him. He says he wants to know what’s behind it. She tells him it’s just offices and he calls her a filthy liar. More Haldol. He spends the entire day in bed, in and out of a drugged stupor. Peter isn’t much better that night. This is going to take a few days.

He’s allowed up the next day, so he heads over to the door again. The more times he can get Brunski to mistreat him on camera, the happier he’ll be. Brunski drags him away from the door, much more forcefully than is needed, since Stiles isn’t even trying to fight back.

More Haldol, more restraints. Stiles is only half-aware of what he’s doing by the end of it. The only imperative in his mind is to get to Peter. No matter what else happens, he can’t forget that’s his goal.

He’s surprised to see his father come in. Had they called him? Were the seventy-two hours up already? How long had he been there? Then he sees his father arguing with the charge nurse, just outside the ward. That makes sense. As soon as Tom had left Eichen House, had left the oppressive darkness behind, he had decided that their seventy-two hour waiting period could go to hell, and now he was here for visiting hours.

One of the aides gets Stiles sitting in the common room, and Brunski leans in close to his ear. “No matter what you tell your father about this place, he won’t believe you,” he says. “You know that, right? He thinks you’re just as crazy as the rest of us do.”

“Up your hole with a ten foot pole, you piece of shit,” Stiles tells Brunski, who gives him a slap upside the head that’s probably going to leave a bruise underneath his hair. His father didn’t see it, but the camera did.

“Hey, buddy,” Tom says, sitting across from him. “How are you doing?”

The drugs have worn off, and Stiles is clear-minded enough to decide how to handle it. No, his father won’t believe him. Not now. Not yet. But he’ll remember this later. “I don’t like this place,” he whines. “I don’t like all the closed doors. When I try to go through them, everybody gets mad. This place is full of secrets.”

“Lots of places are full of secrets, kiddo,” Tom says, laughing a little ruefully. “You can’t just go poking your nose anywhere you’d like.”

“But this place is bad,” Stiles says. “It’s dark. Can’t you feel it?”

Tom shifts a little, uncomfortable, and says, “No, Stiles, I don’t really. I mean, it gives me the creeps a little. Is that what you mean?”

Stiles nods, wide-eyed and earnest. “They keep monsters here. Behind the closed doors.”

Tom looks around and sees Morrell, and beckons to her. She walks over with a smile and asks how she can help. “Look, I don’t want to tell you guys how to do your jobs,” he says, although it’s clear that he’s itching to do exactly that. “It’s just that I’ve found with Stiles, when he gets these ideas, it works to show him concrete proof that what he’s imagining isn’t true. Could you maybe take him down that hallway he’s so obsessed with, just to show him there’s nothing there?”

Morrell’s smile never leaves her face. “We actually did that yesterday,” she says. “Showed him the offices and everything. It didn’t seem to help.”

“That was the wrong hallway,” Stiles says, because he thinks calling Morrell a liar to her face won’t win him any points with his father. “They have a _secret_ hallway. That’s where they keep the monsters.”

Tom reaches out and absently rubs his back. “Buddy, there aren’t any monsters here,” he says patiently.

“There are, though,” Stiles says. “And they don’t want me telling anyone, so they keep telling me I’m imagining it. They fill me up full of drugs to make me fuzzy-headed and then tell me things that aren’t true.”

“Who’s they?” Tom asks.

“Everybody,” Stiles insists.

“Stiles,” Morrell says, “why don’t you tell your father about what we talked about in our group session today?”

Stiles makes a face at her. “Didn’t we fire you?” he asks.

“She’s the head counselor here,” Tom says, although he seems a little amused. But he seems to think that redirecting Stiles is a good idea. “Hey, here’s an idea, why don’t I tell you about the call I took last night about an abandoned dog somebody had found?”

Stiles pulls his knees to his chest and asks, “Does it have a happy ending?”

“Sure does, kiddo,” Tom says, squeezing his shoulder. So Stiles says okay and his father tells him about this pit bull that had been running around in a neighborhood, scaring people in its ongoing quest to love absolutely everybody. They had brought it to the vet and one of the other police officers was already talking about adopting it.

“I’ll come see you again tomorrow, okay?” Tom says, once it’s time for him to leave.

Five minutes later, Brunski is hauling Stiles back to his room to think about what he’s done. “I told you he wouldn’t believe you,” he says, sneering.

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles says, and closes his eyes. “I believe me.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

This time, not taking his sleeping medication is a lot trickier than previously, especially with Brunski watching him like a hawk. No, he basically has one choice. He swallows it, waits until Brunski is gone, and then sticks a finger in his throat and vomits into the trash can. “Gross,” his roommate says, without really caring very much. Stiles gives him a fifty dollar bill and tells him to keep quiet. Then he shoves an old T-shirt in the trash can to cover it up and hopefully diminish the smell.

He has a feeling that they’re going to check on him more than once, even without knowing that he had thrown up. He lies on his side and quietly pretends to sleep. The ten minute check goes by. They check on him again at thirty minutes. He watches the clock and waits. They check on him again at an hour, and then it’s eleven PM. Shift change.

He gives it another half an hour so everyone will be settled into their posts, then climbs out of bed and takes out the book, peeling the back page off to get the key card. Dressed only in a loose T-shirt and pajama pants, he ventures into the hallway.

The first thing he needs is camouflage. He’s been practicing his magic, but right now he looks like a patient. He walks down the empty hallway and ducks into the group therapy room. He finds a white lab coat there, a pair of reading glasses, and a clipboard. A perfect disguise. Thirty seconds after that, he’s holding his breath and sliding Brunski’s key card.

There’s a click, and the light changes from red to green. He lets out a sigh of relief and heads inside. The hallway is dark and silent. He walks briskly, purposefully, down towards Peter’s cell. He just wants to make sure that he’s there.

He is, slumped against the glass wall. It looks like he tried to wait for Stiles, but his fatigue and the drugs overcame him and he passed out. Stiles walks past without stopping. He’ll be back for Peter in a few minutes. First he needs to find a way out. He can’t explore the building with a half-conscious Peter draped over his shoulder. Their exit needs to be by the shortest route.

For a moment, he thinks about tapping on the glass to wake Peter, but decides against it. He’ll be back in a minute, and he doesn’t want Peter agitated. He might attract attention. So Stiles walks down the hallway and around the corner. He has to take two more turns before he finds a door that leads to the stairs. One flight down and there’s a locked door. He closes his eyes and mental pictures the facility. He’s ninety percent certain that this door leads outside. It’ll have to do.

He jogs back upstairs and goes back towards Peter’s cell. This time there’s a guard coming the other way. Stiles takes a deep breath and walks purposefully, holding the clipboard and projecting a strong aura of disinterest. The guard won’t notice him. He forces himself to think that, to _believe_ that. The guard won’t notice him.

He doesn’t. He walks right past Stiles without giving him a second glance. Stiles nearly jumps up in the air and whoops in joy as soon as he’s gone around the corner. But he has more important things to do. He stops outside Peter’s cell. The werewolf hasn’t moved a muscle.

Stiles swipes the keycard.

Nothing happens.

“Oh, shit,” he says, startled. But it makes sense to some degree. An orderly like Brunski might have access to the ward, but would they want him to be able to go into the _cells_? Especially of someone powerful and dangerous like Peter?

Peter stirs and blinks up at him blearily. “Stiles,” he slurs.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, looking around like he might find something to help him. “I’m going to get you out of there. Don’t worry.”

Peter gives a little nod and then slumps against the glass. Stiles tries to think. He doesn’t have much time. Minutes. He might be able to keep a guard from noticing him while he walks down the hallway, but not while he just stands outside Peter’s cell. He doesn’t have a key and has no idea where he might get one.

In the dreams, he’s been able to just walk through the glass. He presses both hands against it and tells himself that if it can happen in the dream, it can happen here. But nothing does.

“Shit,” he repeats. “Shit!”

Peter blinks up at him again. “Don’t panic,” he murmurs. “If you panic, you doubt. Be calm. Think. _Believe_. You’re a spark. You can do this. I know that you can.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. Peter thinks he can do this. Peter _knows_ he can do this.

Without thinking, he begins to run his fingers along the glass, feeling it beneath his fingertips. He moves his hand in a smooth, perfect circle. He’s thinking about the heist movies his father loves so much, about diamond-tipped drills or blowtorches. The glass is starting to get hot underneath his fingers, and he moves his hand even faster.

“You can do this,” Peter repeats, holding Stiles’ gaze. His eyes are red, now, a brilliant crimson that something inside Stiles responds to, humming like a tuning fork hit at just the right angle.

The glass ripples and suddenly dissolves, falling around Peter in a rush of fine sand, too smooth to be of any danger.

“Cool,” Stiles says, impressed with himself.

Peter hauls himself to his feet, using the wall to support himself. “Shall we?” he asks, and he’s very suave and nonchalant for approximately two seconds before he collapses, folding into Stiles’ arms.

“Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here,” Stiles agrees, getting an arm underneath Peter’s shoulders and half-helping, half-carrying him along.

They’ve barely taken three shuffling steps when a guard rounds the corner. He stops dead when he sees them, then grabs for his radio.

High on the magic he just did, on the _belief_ that he can do anything, Stiles shouts, “Don’t!” and the guard, surprisingly, freezes. Stiles looks him right in the eye in the dim hallway and casts about for some spell, some magic. What comes out is, “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”

“What?” the guard asks dazedly.

For lack of a better option, Stiles repeats it, and then adds for punctuation, “Move along.”

The guard drops his hand, turns around, and walks away.

“Okay, my guess is that we’ve got about four seconds before he figures out what just happened, we’d better get moving,” Stiles says, dragging Peter towards the stairs. They hit them at a half-run and stumble downwards, nearly falling into the locked door. “Okay, Peter, it’s all on you,” Stiles says, glancing over their shoulders nervously.

Peter nods, and then he _does_ fall into the door. But he takes a deep breath, leans against Stiles for balance, and kicks it squarely by the handle. It flies open, flies _off_ , and a bunch of alarms go off. “Whoa, time to go,” Stiles blurts out, and even Peter manages to run across the small lot and scale the chain link fence.

They don’t stop running until they reach the fallen log where Stiles has hidden their belongings, and then he collapses, wheezing and laughing. “Dude, that was so awesome,” he says. “Even if this is all a crazy hallucination, I’m enjoying the shit out of it.”

He stops laughing when he sees Peter slump against the log, his body shaking. “Whoa, whoa, you’re okay,” Stiles says, grabbing and easing him down. “Stay with me, Peter. We’re not done yet. But you can just sit for a minute, okay?” he adds, and helps him lie down. Peter’s skin is cold to the touch, and he’s still trembling. It’s chilly out, although he hasn’t really felt it because of the adrenaline. But he wastes no time grabbing the shovel and digging out the supplies he had laid in.

“Here, you okay to get dressed?” Stiles asks, and Peter nods, grasping at the fabric. His movements are rough and jerky, but he manages to pull the clothes on. Stiles is just as fast to shed his institution clothes and pull on the sweatshirt and jeans he had packed himself. Peter can’t get his shoes on, so Stiles does that for him, then grabs the flashlight. He tucks the phone and the keys away in his pockets, wraps the rest of their things in the tarp, and carries it with him. He doesn’t want people finding the tarp and the shovel with his fingerprints all over it.

Peter is staggering, and Stiles isn’t able to help him much, so they don’t make very good time. Stiles is constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting to hear voices and sirens and dogs. But there’s nothing, not yet. He wonders if Eichen House will delay calling the police, due to the nature of Peter’s residency. It would be nice if they did.

It’s twenty long minutes before they reach the high school, and it’s dark and silent. Stiles lets them inside, and Peter takes the lead, heading for the entrance to the vault. He traces his claws over it and twists it open. “Cool,” Stiles says, and helps Peter down the narrow staircase. “Okay, you wait here,” he says, dumping the tarp and the shovel. “I have to go grab our supplies.”

Peter nods, curling up in a corner. Stiles doesn’t like leaving him like that, so he tries to be as quick as possible. Of course, it takes two trips to lug it all down into the vault, but once he does, and closes the door behind him, he finally stops to breathe. They made it. They’re safe. Even if the dogs manage to track them to the high school, they’ll never find the vault.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside Peter. “How are you doing?”

Peter squeezes his wrist and mumbles, “Okay.”

“Okay, good.” Stiles spreads out the padding and then the sleeping bag. The vault is cold, and he doubts it’s going to warm up much during the day. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he finds that he’s shivering, too. He helps Peter into the sleeping bag, then rolls out his own.

Peter grabs his wrist again. “Together. Warmer that way.”

“We won’t both fit,” Stiles says.

“Zip them together,” Peter says, gesturing.

It takes Stiles a minute, then he gets it. “Oh, okay,” he says, unzipping Peter’s and hooking the zipper to his own sleeping bag to make one large one. Once that’s done, he grabs a pillow and crawls down into them. Peter is shivering, and wastes no time cozying up to him. Stiles has no problem with that, although Peter is sweating and his skin is pale and clammy. “I need to make you some of that tea,” Stiles says. “It’ll help burn through the wolfsbane.”

“In a minute,” Peter says, nuzzling at his neck and shoulder. “You’re so warm,” he says, with a contented sigh. “I haven’t been warm in – I don’t know when. Lost track of time, a long time ago.”

Stiles recalls that the prison was pretty chilly, and Peter had just been wearing the T-shirt and sweatpants. He certainly hadn’t seen any blankets in his cell. He nestles closer and hopes he doesn’t get a boner from the way that Peter is nuzzling at him. His eyelids droop a few times. “I wonder if I’m really here,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’m hallucinating all of this while they pump me full of drugs at Eichen House.”

“Well, if you are, you might as well enjoy the consequence free environment,” Peter says, nipping at his ear. Stiles laughs a little, but there’s tense anxiety underneath it. This is real, or at least as real as things are going to get. This isn’t one of his dreams. This is Peter, alive and in the flesh.

Peter kisses him softly, briefly, and then withdraws. Stiles leans in automatically, pursuing another kiss, and Peter’s happy to oblige him. They kiss for what feels like hours, their bodies pressed together inside the sleeping bag, Peter’s hand coming up to caress his cheek and rub over his hair. Stiles doesn’t have any idea what he’s doing and he doesn’t even care. Peter’s kissing him and that’s all that matters.

After either five minutes or five hours, Peter pulls away. His head drops onto the pillow in obvious exhaustion. “To be continued,” he murmurs, and his eyes flutter shut. Stiles lays down next to him and is asleep moments later.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost kind of schmoopy. XD Whoda thunk it?

Stiles wakes up with a jolt when he hears Peter snarling and growling. The werewolf has been tossing and turning in his sleep, and the sleeping bag has wound around them like a vise. When Stiles tries to extricate himself, Peter wakes up and turns on him, pinning him to the ground with one hand around his wrist and another around his throat, his eyes flaring crimson.

“Nrrrgg,” Stiles manages, which isn’t what he meant to say at all, but is all he can manage. Peter manages to recognize him without needing him to say anything, however, the red bleeding out of his eyes. He half-collapses again, body shaking. Stiles swallows down the pain and the panic. “Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he says, and wonders how long he was sleeping. Peter needs the medicine; he could die if he doesn’t get it.

A quick glance at the phone is comforting. He only slept about forty-five minutes. Now that the surge of adrenaline is wearing off, he can definitely feel that.

He starts the camp stove and gets some water boiling, and sets up the carbon monoxide detector although he’s thinking they’ll be okay. The vault looks like it’s connected to the school’s ventilation system.

While he’s waiting for the water, he turns on the phone and loads up the police scanner app. He’s thrilled and surprised to see that the little burner has wi-fi. The walls of the vault are thick, but if he puts the phone by the door, it gets a couple bars.

It’s been over an hour since their escape, and the police scanner is now bubbling with activity. Peter hasn’t been mentioned, though; the chatter is only about Stiles, a minor in need of psychiatric treatment who had left ‘a secure facility’. Stiles stares at the little stove and wonders how his father is doing. He wishes he could call him, but doesn’t dare.

The tea is supposed to be drank as close to boiling as possible. The books said not to worry about the werewolf being harmed by drinking scalding liquid. Their healing would take care of it, and the mixture is meant to burn the wolfsbane out from within. Stiles helps Peter sit up and tells him to drink it as quickly as possible. Peter does, and then curls up on his side, convulsing. Stiles sits next to him and smoothes down his hair. “Now you’re supposed to get that every hour for the first day or two,” he says, “Sorry.”

“S’all right,” Peter says. He blinks over at Stiles and reaches out to him, one finger brushing against Stiles’ wrist. “Hurt you.”

Stiles looks down and sees the bruise forming around his wrist from where Peter grabbed him. “Actually, you know – that’s great. Can you do that to my other wrist, too? To my ankles?” He sees Peter staring blankly at him. “I was hoping the restraints at Eichen House would leave marks, but they didn’t. This way it’ll look like they had me strapped down a lot more than they did.”

A smile curves at Peter’s lips. “Clever,” he says, and reaches out for Stiles’ other wrist.

It hurts a little, but it’s not a big deal. When that’s done, Stiles goes over to the food and makes them both a peanut butter sandwich. He finds that he’s starving, and eats two. Peter only manages a few bites. He says not to worry about it; he won’t be hungry until the wolfsbane has worn off. Then he reaches for Stiles. “Come back to bed,” he says.

Stiles is happy to oblige, crawling back into the little cave of warmth. “I can’t sleep,” he says. “I need to make sure you get your medicine.”

“Set an alarm,” Peter says, but falls asleep before Stiles can reply. Stiles squirms around a little and grabs a book.

He manages to stay awake, occasionally crawling out of the sleeping bag to wake himself up. Peter gets tea every hour, but doesn’t really rouse again until long after sunrise. The school is surprisingly quiet. Is it the weekend? He supposes that it must be. He had gone into Eichen House on Wednesday, so their escape had been Friday night. That’s convenient. Still, there might be people in and out, teachers doing extra work, sports teams having practices.

“What time is it?” Peter asks, fumbling his way out of the sleeping bag and looking haggard.

Stiles puts a finger to his lips to warn Peter to be quiet and replies, “About ten thirty. You hungry?”

“Mm, a little,” Peter says. He barely manages to get halfway to Stiles before he collapses and just lays on the floor. Stiles grabs the pillow and tucks it underneath his head, then pulls the blanket over him. He peels one of the oranges and gives it to Peter a section at a time.

“You feel really warm,” he says, touching Peter’s forehead lightly.

“Everything hurts,” Peter mutters.

Stiles winces. “Sorry. That sucks.”

Peter eats half the orange and drinks another mug of the tea. “S’quiet,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s Saturday,” Stiles says. “No school. That worked out for us. And even if the police dogs manage to track our scent to the school, they won’t be able to find the vault.”

“Don’t think they will.” Peter’s head cocks to one side. “It’s raining.”

“Oh, is it?” Now that Peter mentions it, Stiles can hear a faint thrum. He wouldn’t have been able to identify it. He thinks of his father, undoubtedly part of the search, wandering the forest in the rain, shouting Stiles’ name. His eyes burn with unshed tears, and he rubs the back of his hand over them.

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“I’d better not be crazy,” Stiles says. “You have to be real, do you – do you hear me? Because if I’m doing this – if this is all just my head playing tricks on me, I’m – my father is worried about me, looking for me, and I can’t – if I’m doing this to him for no reason, I’ll hate myself forever.”

“I’m real,” Peter says.

“Of course you would say that,” Stiles says, and clears his throat, going for a can of soda. “I just . . . all my life, my father’s worried about me. All my life, I’ve upset him and made trouble for him and made his life difficult. And this is just . . . one of these days it’s gonna be the last straw, you know?”

“I don’t think so,” Peter says. “Parents have the boundless ability to love their children despite everything. I know that because mine still loved me despite all the trouble I caused them.”

“Oh, yeah? Were you a troublemaker?” This cheers Stiles up. The notion of hearing stories about Peter’s childish escapades, of focusing on something other than his illness for a while.

“I might have caused a problem a time or two,” Peter says, and sees the hopeful way Stiles is looking at him. He huffs out a quiet laugh and proceeds to tell Stiles the story of when he had stolen baby Jesus from the town’s manger scene at Christmas and replaced it with a plastic T-Rex, the story of how he had continuously pranked his older brother and sister with silly things like cream cheese deodorant, the story of how he had cheated his way through high school.

Stiles listens to all of these as they lie there on the floor together, listens to the dark edge underneath Peter’s voice, and says, “I’m sorry. To make you talk about them.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’d rather not forget them.” He kisses his index finger and then presses it against Stiles’ lips. “They constantly aggravated me. They had all these rules and morals. My sister was bossy and perfect; my brother disapproved of everything I ever did. And then they died and I realized how much I loved them, because no matter how much Talia was a know-it-all or how much Evan rolled his eyes at me, they accepted me. They loved me despite my laundry list of character flaws.”

“I like your laundry list of character flaws,” Stiles offers.

“Do you?” Peter is amused. “I’m selfish and manipulative, arrogant and often unkind. I’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant such loyalty from you, you know.”

Stiles is quiet for a minute. “Yeah, that’s true,” he says. “From the beginning, all you’ve done is asked me to do things for you. And that . . . that’s the first time anyone’s ever done that. My dad, you know, everything he does is for me. He never asks me for anything, because . . . he knows how broken I am. But you asked me to do things, and you didn’t let me say I couldn’t. You believed in me. Nobody’s ever believed in me before. Not since Mom died.”

“That’s a very poetic way of looking at how demanding I’ve been,” Peter says, leaning in for a kiss. Stiles savors it, slow and deep and lazy.

“You’ve also taught me how nice kissing is,” he says.

“Now that, at least, benefits both of us,” Peter murmurs, and kisses him again.

Peter falls asleep again before long, but the brief spell of lucidity appears to be over. He starts tossing and turning restlessly, muttering in his sleep. Sometimes his fists clench down and Stiles can see his claws digging into his palms, leaving bloody smears behind. He manages to soothe him a few times, but he’s careful never to get too close. If Peter is really out of it, he could do a lot of damage.

His watch beeps and he starts making the next batch of tea. Peter snarls at him and doesn’t really rouse, but drinks it down before falling back onto the cushions. His face is pale and his hair is damp from sweat. Stiles talks to him quietly, the way he used to in the dreams. After a while, it appears to work. He falls into a stupor so complete that Stiles is a little reluctant to wake him for his next dose. But the books were very specific.

He starts to doze while waiting for the water to boil. His sleep at Eichen House had been bad, between the drugs and the nagging darkness underneath it. And he hadn’t slept well for the week before, too nervous about his plan. Now he’s been up all night, and he’s probably going to be up another night. He opens another soda and starts to drink it.

He puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder when the tea is ready and gives him a gentle shake. Peter opens one eye and snarls at him, then closes it again. Stiles grimaces and shakes harder. “Peter, hey, Peter,” he says. “C’mon, wake up. It’s time for your medicine.”

Peter lunges upwards, and this time Stiles was smart enough to stay about a foot away, so he doesn’t wind up pinned down again. His teeth are bared and his eyes are shining crimson. “No!” he shouts, and one fists lashes out, knocking the cup out of Stiles hand. Stiles yelps as the hot liquid splashes on him.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says. “Calm down, okay? It’s just me – ”

Peter just snarls and goes off onto a rambling, disjointed rant about the people poisoning him and force-feeding him the wolfsbane. Stiles doesn’t try to stop him, lets him run dry, waits until the disorientation starts to bleed out of his eyes and he looks around, confused. Then he moves closer, getting Peter’s face in his hands.

“It’s me,” he says quietly. “You’re okay, Peter. You’re safe here, remember? I got you out.”

“Stiles,” Peter says, his voice rusty again, and he shudders. “Confused. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says. Peter doesn’t seem like much of a hugger, but Stiles hugs him anyway, holding his shaking body until the tremors start to ease. “I’m going to make a new batch, okay?” he says, and Peter nods. Ten minutes later, he’s asleep again.

The day drags on like that. Peter has brief spells of lucidity, where he and Stiles will talk about inconsequential things like what food they like or what their favorite movies are, and then he’ll fall into an exhausted sleep which will gradually become more and more agitated. Sometimes he drinks the tea without complaint, and sometimes Stiles has to coax him into it.

By the time the sun has set and Stiles is thinking about making himself something to eat, he has a headache gnawing at his temples. Peter’s sleep is growing fitful, so Stiles decides to make him more tea and wake him. Peter snarls at him and doesn’t recognize him for several long minutes. When Stiles finally gets the tea down him, he falls back into a stupor, shivering and mumbling in his sleep.

Stiles manages to distract himself with the books he brought down, but he feels twitchy and the headache is only getting worse. He tries to eat but feels queasy. After a while, he crawls into bed beside Peter. Peter opens his eyes and stares at him, unseeing. “Hey,” Stiles says. “Hey, it’s me.”

“You smell wrong,” Peter says, his voice foggy from sleep. “Bad. Like you’re sick.”

“Well, sorry,” Stiles says, feeling miffed. Peter’s eyes slide closed. Stiles tries to sleep, but he’s nauseous now, and the headache is growing too bad to ignore, even through his exhaustion. He tosses and turns, and occasionally Peter grunts or growls at him.

His watch beeps, and he gets up to make Peter more tea, wondering if it might soothe his stomach. One of the ingredients is ginger, which is good for nausea. But there are other things he’s never heard of. “Here, Peter, tea,” he says, shaking him away.

“Ugh,” Peter says, summing up his feelings concisely. But he drinks it down. “I’m not being very grateful,” he says afterwards, sounding hoarse and scratchy. “I do apologize.”

“I forgive you,” Stiles says. “I wouldn’t be happy to be woken every hour and have scalding liquid poured down my throat. Even if I knew it was for my benefit.”

Peter gives a little nod. “You should sleep,” he says. “You haven’t slept in days.”

“Possibly weeks,” Stiles says. “I’ll be okay. I’m worried about my dad. He must be scared stiff not knowing where I am.”

“You should be able to go home tomorrow,” Peter says.

“No way, you’re not going to be better by then,” Stiles says. “You’re still half-conscious and freaking out half the time. And you’re supposed to get the tea every hour for, uh, thirteen times three, which is thirty-nine hours. Weird number. Must be mystical, I guess. Anyway, we started it about one AM, so it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.”

Peter looks annoyed at this description of his behavior, but doesn’t argue. He just goes back to his earlier statement. “I feel all right now. Get some rest.”

Stiles nods and crawls into the sleeping bag, closing his eyes, exhausted. But the painful throbbing in his temples doesn’t go away. He shifts and struggles, getting more uncomfortable by the minute. He feels too hot and a little dizzy.

“Are you all right?” Peter asks.

“Fine,” Stiles chokes out, and is suddenly, acutely aware that he’s about to throw up. He struggles out of the sleeping bag and just barely manages to get to the corner of the vault before he’s puking up everything he ate for dinner.

He’s surprised when Peter comes up behind him, feeling the back of his neck. “You’re a little warm, but I don’t think you have a fever,” he says.

“Sorry I puked on your vault,” Stiles says.

Peter gets him a bottle of water and makes him take little sips. “Something you ate?”

“No, I . . .” Stiles is starting to get a sinking feeling about what’s causing his misery. “I think it’s withdrawal. From my meds.”

“Ah,” Peter says.

Stiles sits with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths. “It’s the Effexor that’s the problem. I’ve read that it has wicked withdrawal. I never really took the Risperdal and wasn’t in Eichen House long enough for my system to have gotten used to it, and they weaned me off Zyprexa after my last admission, thank God, or I’d be really bad off.”

Peter is quietly rubbing his hand up and down Stiles’ back. “Is it dangerous?”

“No,” Stiles says. “I don’t think so. Just miserable.”

“Mm,” Peter says. “All right. For now, at least. But I might just have to handle being left on my own, if you get worse.”

Stiles nods. “Gonna lie down for a bit,” he says, and crawls back into the makeshift bed.

He loses track of time, unable to sleep but just too exhausted to entirely stay awake. Everything hurts. He throws up two more times. Peter doesn’t make him tea, but instead has him chew on a few pieces of ginger. It makes his mouth burn, but it does curb the worst of the nausea.

Peter falls asleep a few hours later despite his best efforts, and Stiles drags himself out of bed when his watch beeps so he can give him his medicine. Light is starting to filter through the half-windows, and he starts counting down the hours to when he can leave. It’ll depend some on how Peter is when he wakes up. Stiles has a few crackers with peanut butter and immediately throws up again. He can’t even manage to drink any of the soda.

He listens to the police scanner for a while to update himself on the search. They’ve spread out into the preserve, where the dogs lost the trail, and now they’re talking about Peter, the ‘possibly armed and definitely dangerous’ fugitive that might or might not be accompanying Stiles. They’ve searched all the places that have a known association to him, although there aren’t many.

Peter is coherent at ten AM tea time, and he offers to stay up for a little while. “I don’t think I’ll sleep,” Stiles says. “Just help me distract myself.”

“Mm, all right,” Peter says. They play Hangman and twenty questions and talk about nothing in particular. Stiles fails at the games because his head hurts so much, but does his best.

When he still can’t manage to eat anything at one o’clock, Peter’s last cup of tea, the werewolf says, “All right. I’m as well as I’m going to get for the next day or two, and you can’t stay down here any longer.”

“I can’t leave now, though,” Stiles says. “It’s the middle of the day. Someone could see me.”

Peter frowns, but then gives a nod of acquiescence. “All right. But as soon as it’s fully dark, you need to get yourself found so you can get to a hospital. You really don’t look good.”

“I’d love some IV fluids and some Effexor, trust me,” Stiles says, nodding.

They talk about which superpower they would have if they could choose and who they would choose if they could meet any person, living or dead, and what they would take to a deserted island with them. Stiles flits in and out of consciousness for a while, the world fading back and forth with the beat of his pulse and the throbbing in his temples.

He wakes up with a start when Peter shakes him, and sees that it’s dark. “Off you go,” Peter says.

Stiles nods and then swallows. “When – when will you come see me?”

“They’ll probably keep you in the hospital overnight,” Peter says. “I’ll stop by your apartment tomorrow to see if you’re there so I can chat with your father.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He has to take a minute to swallow a few bubbles of panic. “Please be real,” he says.

Peter leans in and presses a gentle kiss against his mouth. “Just as real as you,” he says.

“But what if – what if I leave and I never see you again?” Stiles can’t fight the panic; it’s making his breath whistle in his throat. “What if none of this actually happened and, and I’m just hallucinating all this in the forest or, or worse, in Eichen House – ”

“Stiles.” Peter stops his rambling with another kiss. “You’ll see me tomorrow. It’s a promise. But you can’t see your father until you leave here, and I think you want to see him very much. Am I right?”

Stiles nods and takes a deep, shuddering breath. His father, who’s undoubtedly worried sick about him. Peter’s right. He needs to get back to his father. “Okay,” he says, in a thin, reedy voice. “Okay. But you’d still better show up tomorrow.”

“Understood,” Peter says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles has thought about this a lot. He can’t have anyone knowing that he’s spent the last two days underneath the school. Peter won’t want anyone to know where the vault is. He also wants to get Eichen House in as much trouble as possible, so he wants it to look like he’s been lost and suffering. The bruises on his wrists and ankles are a good start, and he’s done his best to keep himself as dehydrated as possible, which has been pretty easy, what with all the puking.

But it’s been cold, especially at night, so he needs to be cold. He knows Peter won’t agree with it, won’t like him purposefully damaging himself, but he goes into the locker rooms and runs the cold water in the shower. He stands in it for half an hour, until his body is sore and shivering. He can barely get into his clothes afterwards, and they do nothing to warm him up. Then he edges out the back door of the school, walking barefoot, limping across the rough pavement into the forest.

He’s still half frozen when it starts to rain, which works out great for his plan but poorly for his body. By the time he’s in the preserve, his clothes are soaked through and his muscles barely work. His feet are numb and bleeding. But he keeps walking. No matter what happens, he’s going to stick it to them. And he knows approximately where to go. The police scanner app has been very helpful in that regard.

He waits until he can hear some noise and then curls up half-underneath a fallen log. That’s quite enough for a little while, he thinks, and closes his eyes. His entire body is wracked with shudders, and he’s so thirsty, he starts sucking the moisture out of his sleeves. His head is killing him and he hopes he just passes out for a while.

It’s been fewer than ten minutes when he hears a bark, and then, suddenly, feels warmth. One of the police dogs is happily licking his face, and then she curls right up with Stiles, pressing her warm body against his. It feels amazingly good, and he cuddles up to her.

“Hey, over here!” a human voice shouts, and then the dog is being told she’s a good girl and Stiles is blearily looking at the young deputy and trying to remember his name. “Call Tom!” the guy is shouting over his shoulder, then adds, “And an ambulance!” He kneels down beside Stiles and says, “Hey, buddy, how are you feeling?”

Stiles’ teeth are chattering so hard that he almost can’t answer. “C-C-C-Cold,” he finally stutters out, clinging to the dog. “W-Where’s my d-d-d-dad?”

“He’s on his way, don’t worry – ” The deputy looks over his shoulder and takes a blanket that someone else is shaking out. “Here, let me help you sit up – ”

A minute later, Stiles is sitting with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The dog is still in his lap, letting Stiles soak up her warmth, and someone has gotten him a thermos full of hot coffee. He sips at it carefully. Then the ambulance is there and they help him onto the stretcher. He doesn’t want to let go of the dog, and okay, maybe he cries a little, but that’s just from exhaustion. It’s not a big deal.

They’re about to load the stretcher up into the ambulance when he hears a car door slam and then his dad runs up to him. He grabs Stiles around the shoulders and clutches at him. Stiles does his best to hug back, which is difficult since his limbs are barely working. “You, you are so _grounded_ , do you understand me,” Tom chokes out, and Stiles hugs him harder.

They manage somehow to pry Tom off Stiles and get everyone into the ambulance, and the paramedic is reassuring Tom that Stiles is okay – mildly hypothermic and dehydrated, but nothing severe. Surprisingly, Tom isn’t demanding answers of Stiles, and right around then, Stiles remembers he hasn’t slept in nearly a week, so he closes his eyes.

They get an IV in him and start a glucose/saline drip and then they’re at the hospital and the doctor is feeling his head and shining a light in his eyes and asking questions about where he’s been.

“The echo house,” Stiles says in reply.

“Right,” the doctor says patiently. “But then you left Eichen House. Where have you been since then?”

“What?” Stiles asks, blinking at him. “No, no, I was at the echo house. I was a good boy. I promise.”

That throws the doctor enough that he apparently decides he’ll leave that to the shrinks. He asks Stiles for his full name and the year, makes him do a few simple math problems, before proclaiming that he doesn’t seem to have any head trauma. He adds a painkiller to the mix, and that in combination with the heated blanket makes Stiles feel more than a little loopy. He smiles at his father as Tom comes rushing up, having dealt with the immediate paperwork.

“Hey, Daddy,” he slurs. He suddenly feels so warm and full of love for his father, the rock with which he anchors the world.

“Hey, you,” Tom says gently. He looks over at Melissa, who’s hovering, and asks, “What did they give him?”

“Just a painkiller,” she says. “But it looks like he’s pretty sleep-deprived and moderately dehydrated. We’re going to get him moved into a room shortly. Probably just keep him overnight for observation.”

“Okay,” Tom says, before turning back to his son. “Stiles – where have you been?”

“The echo house,” Stiles reminds him.

“Yes, but – after you left,” Tom says. “That was almost two _days_ ago, Stiles. Where did you go?”

Stiles is too tired and loopy to remember all the things he was supposed to say. “I was with the soulshare,” he says, and begins to babble to his father, quite happy to tell him everything and get it all off his chest. “He’s nice. But they were poisoning him. He needed my help. And I needed his. I had to stay with him. To make sure he was okay. It was yellow wolfsbane. That’s the worst kind. It takes time to get it all out of the system.”

Tom is frowning slightly, trying to decipher what Stiles is saying. “Who’s ‘he’?”

“The _soulshare_ ,” Stiles says, as if Tom should know exactly what that means. “He was locked up there. But I got him out. I’m a Jedi Knight. It’s all real, Daddy. I know, I know what the shrinks are going to say. That it’s a delusion of grandeur. But I’m not alone. There are others like me.”

Tom gives a quiet sigh. “Okay, Stiles,” he says. “Tell me about the others.”

“I’m a spark,” Stiles tells him. “That means I’m magic. A spark is an undeveloped magical talent. You have to tell it what to do. Can I have some Effexor?” he adds, and sees his father’s frown intensify. “Withdrawal is a bitch.”

“Jesus, kid,” Tom says, and looks over at Melissa. She goes to ask the doctor, and while she’s gone, Tom says, “What about the other meds? The Risperdal and the Zyprexa?”

Stiles blinks up at him and says cheerfully, “Oh, I don’t need those. I haven’t taken them in ages.” He watches his father’s eyes fall shut, like he feels a headache coming on, and remembers that he had promised not to do that. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry.”

Tom shakes his head and says, “You’re lucky I’m so happy to see you. We’re gonna have a talk about this later.”

Stiles is saved from having to reply as the nurse comes back, with a little cup of juice and one of his pills. She comes over and tilts the bed up a little, and Stiles takes the pill and knocks it back. He’s     barely swallowed when his father takes him by the arm.

“What are these?” he asks, tracing one finger over the bruises.

Stiles blinks at him, still smiling goofily. He wonders what they gave him. It’s good stuff. “I _told_ you,” he says. “They strapped me down. They were mad that I found their secret prison. So they strapped me to the bed and pumped me full of drugs until they convinced me I imagined it. But I didn’t imagine it. I found it again.”

“Jesus,” Tom says, and Stiles can practically see the gears in his head turning, wondering, if the one thing is true, then how _much_ of it is true?

Before he can say anything else, Melissa comes back and they’re getting him moved up to a room. They get him a new heated blanket, and he’s so warm and comfortable that he doesn’t care about anything anymore. Two minutes later, he’s sunk into a deep sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I love this chapter so much, I couldn't wait to post it. Happy weekend, everybody!

 

For a long minute, Stiles isn’t sure of what woke him up. Then he realizes he can hear voices shouting at each other. Specifically, his father’s voice. “ – don’t give a _damn_ what you have to say about that. I want you to explain to me how my son was able to walk out of a locked ward without anybody stopping him.”

The voice that responds is female, but unfamiliar. Some administrator, probably. “As I said, another resident also went missing, and the assumption is – ”

“Yeah, you know what, I’ve done some checking into that, and found that ‘another resident’ is actually named Peter Hale,” Tom says. “Let me tell you how fascinating it is to me that your facility has a high security ward for the criminally insane that the parents of your low security residents know nothing about.”

“I can assure you that – ”

“Assure me of _what_?” Tom asks. “Go ahead, assure me. Assure me that there’s no way someone would be able to get out of the maximum security ward and abduct my son. Wait, you can’t do that, because that’s exactly what you’re claiming happened.”

“No, I don’t think you understand.” Now the other voice is growing heated. “Peter Hale never would have been able to get out of that ward if _your son_ hadn’t helped him. As far as we’re able to tell, your son willingly, knowingly assisted in a prison break.”

There’s a moment of silence before Tom says, flatly, “That’s what you think happened.”

“The doors were opened using a security pass, which your son, being in the low security ward, might have been able to steal or copy. There’s no way that Hale would have been able to get something like that.” The voice is growing more assured. “Your son seemed very interested in that ward last time he was admitted. From what we can tell, he purposefully got himself re-admitted so he could assist in Peter’s escape.”

“Excuse me?” Tom has gone from flat to outraged. “You think my son willingly submitted himself to the barbaric treatment at your facility to help some, some murderer?”

“Barbaric? Mr. Stilinski – ”

“Deputy Stilinski,” Tom snaps. “I’m an officer of the law, so why don’t you explain to me why my son has bruises on his wrists and ankles from the restraints you put him in? Or the bruising he has on his rear end, which his nurse tells me looks like it came from repeated, multiple injections given to a struggling child?”

“Melissa looked at my butt?” Stiles slurs out. Fortunately, nobody hears him.

“Restraint is sometimes necessary – ”

“Sure, sure,” Tom says. “But, see, here’s the thing. “You wrote off everything my son told me about the restraints and the drugs as a symptom of his psychosis. Now you’re telling me it was true. So now I have to wonder exactly how much of what he told me about your facility is true. I’m pretty sure that you guys are supposed to be trained on how to de-escalate situations with combative patients. You know, he was on a med before, a few years ago, that made him combative. Depakote, I think. And I’m pretty sure he never needed to be restrained then.”

“He would have been much younger.”

“Really? That’s your excuse? Come on, he’s seventeen. He’s not some MMA fighter that you need to strap down.”

“The mentally ill can be extremely strong when they feel threatened – ”

Tom slams his hand against the wall. “You’re calling my son mentally ill because he discovered a maximum security ward tucked away in your supposedly safe psychiatric hospital, and you didn’t want him to tell anyone about it, so you convinced him it was part of his psychosis. And when I questioned you about it, because those were symptoms my son has never showed before, you lied right to my face. And now you’re accusing him of being an accomplice to the jail break of a serial killer. I’ve got to tell you, I don’t know _what_ to believe anymore. But I’m starting to believe a lot of what my son told me about your facility.”

“Your son who was just telling you he’s a Jedi Knight?” The voice is sarcastic.

“You know what, I’m more willing to believe that my son is a Jedi Knight than I’m willing to believe that you’re telling me the truth about anything.” Tom becomes curt. “This is getting us nowhere. You can expect to be hearing from my lawyer about your treatment of my son.”

Stiles pretends to be asleep as he hears his father come into the room. There’s a slight creak as Tom sinks into the chair next to his bed, and he feels his father lightly touch his bruised wrist, rubbing his thumb over the injury.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Tom mutters. “I don’t even know what to believe anymore. Peter Hale is a real person, and you actually did see him, and . . . and suddenly I just don’t know what to think. About anything.”

“Sokay, Daddy,” Stiles mumbles. “I feel that way all the time.”

“Heh. I just bet you do.” Tom reaches out and smoothes down Stiles’ hair. “But it’s going to be okay, Stiles. We’ll work it out. I promise.”

“Mmkay,” Stiles agrees, and goes back to sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

They keep him overnight for observation, but by the next morning they’ve proclaimed him in good health and are discharging him. The discussion of him going back into psychiatric care was extremely short. One syllable short. “No,” Tom said, in such a flat tone that nobody dared argue with him. Now he’s standing there, signing the papers, when the door opens and two men and a woman come in.

Stiles knows the two men: Gerard Argent and the sheriff. The woman is unfamiliar, but as soon as she speaks, he recognizes her voice as the woman his father was arguing with the previous day. Tom straightens up as soon as he sees the sheriff, and gives him a nod. “Sir.”

“Hey, Tom,” Sheriff Benson says, in a tone so falsely friendly that Stiles scowls at him. “We’ve got a few questions for your son here, before he goes home.”

Tom looks between the three of them, between Gerard’s studious frown and the Eichen House administrator’s smug smirk. “Do you, now,” he says.

“You understand that Peter Hale’s escape is a matter of great concern,” Gerard says.

“I do,” Tom says.

“He murdered my daughter and my daughter-in-law,” Gerard continues.

“I’m aware of that,” Tom says.

“So we would really like to know where he is right now,” Benson says, looking directly at Stiles.

Tom straightens up and folds his arms over his chest. “Is my son the suspect in a crime?”

Benson gives him an obviously fake smile. “Stiles isn’t being charged with any – ”

“That’s not what I asked,” Tom says, and Stiles has a feeling that his father is about to get fired, but he doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t think anyone would listen to him anyway. “Is my son the suspect in a crime?”

The sheriff sighs. “Yes.”

“Then he’s not answering any of your questions until we’ve had the opportunity to consult a lawyer,” Tom says. “I’ll call mine and have him contact the station to set something up for tomorrow. Right now my son needs a shower, a square meal, his own bed, and some peace and quiet.”

The Eichen House administrator gives them a smile just as fake. “We have concerns about Stiles’ mental health – ”

“I just bet you do,” Tom says, “but unless you find a judge who’s willing to forcibly commit him, my son goes home with me. And if you happen to find that judge, I recommend letting him know that he’d better commit him somewhere other than Eichen House, because that place is going to be shut down by the end of the week if I have anything to say about it. Come on, Stiles, let’s go.”

They’re halfway out of the room when Gerard reaches out to grab Stiles by the forearm. “Do you understand what Peter Hale is?” he asks quietly.

Tom opens his mouth, but Stiles beats him to the punch. “Gee, I don’t know,” he says calmly, “since everyone kept telling me he was just a figment of my imagination, I really couldn’t begin to say. Now get your hands off me or I’ll have you charged with assault.”

Gerard’s mouth tightens, but he lets Stiles go. Tom ushers him out of the room before anyone can say anything else. They finish the discharge papers at the nurse’s station, and he gets wheeled outside.

The first few minutes of the drive pass in silence. Then Tom pulls up at a light and says, “Stiles. I don’t – I have a lot of questions. I need to know what happened. I need you to tell me the truth.”

“I can’t,” Stiles says.

Tom takes a deep breath. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what the truth is anymore,” Stiles says. “I can tell you what I remember happening but, but half of it’s all fogged over with drugs and I don’t know how much of anything I was hallucinating and I just – I’ll tell you what I think happened but I can’t guarantee it’s the truth. Okay? Now please just – please take me home, okay?”

Tom lets out the breath he’s been holding, and then nods. “Yeah. Okay, kiddo.” He waits for the light to turn green and then starts down the road again. “What do you want to do for dinner tonight? We could order some take-out.”

“Better be healthy,” Stiles says. “You were probably eating cheeseburgers the entire time I was gone, and don’t try to say you weren’t.”

“Only most of the time,” Tom says, but he’s smiling despite himself. They debate their dinner options as he drives, and it feels okay, it feels normal. He pulls up in front of the apartment and heads inside with Stiles in tow. He’s barely taken two steps inside when he stops in his tracks.

Peter Hale is standing in their kitchen, using their coffee maker.

Moments later, Tom has his gun out and is in firing stance, which is somewhat amusing in contrast to Peter’s nonchalance. He glances over but doesn’t seem worried, pouring himself a mug of coffee. “Deputy,” he says.

“Don’t move,” Tom barks.

“Can – can you see him?” Stiles chokes out.

Tom spares a brief glance at his son and says, “Yes, Stiles, yes, I do see the serial killer standing in my kitchen, thank you for asking.”

All the tension goes out of Stiles and he winds up sitting on the floor, practically dizzy with it. Peter is real. A real, live, visible human being. His father can see him. He looks up at Peter and says, “Change, please, change so he can see.”

“All right,” Peter says complacently, for all the world oblivious to the gun trained on him. He sets down the cup of coffee.

“I said don’t move,” Tom says, but it’s clear that he’s not going to shoot anyone until he gets some answers.

In response, Peter starts to shift. He doesn’t go to the full alpha form – there wouldn’t be room in the kitchen – but his face changes, fangs protruding, claws coming out of his fingers, eyes flashing red. Tom’s gun wavers, but he doesn’t put it down.

“Holy . . . what the . . .” Tom can’t seem to finish his sentence.

Peter shifts back to his human face, picks up his coffee, and takes a sip. “So, Deputy,” he says, “I think we need to talk.”

Tom half-collapses onto the floor next to Stiles and looks at his son with his mouth ajar.

“You saw?” Stiles whispers. “I didn’t imagine it? He – he’s really here, he’s really a werewolf?”

“Jesus,” Tom says, and covers his mouth with one hand. He looks at his son in horror as the pieces start to fit together. “Jesus, Stiles. You – the things you see – ”

Stiles leans against him and clutches at his father as hard as he can. “It’s real, it’s really real, I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy,” he half-sobs, his fingers curling in his father’s shirt as he clings to him. “Oh my God, I’m not crazy.”

“Jesus,” Tom says again, his tone helpless. He rubs at Stiles’ back and his hair. “What the hell is going on? Who the hell are you?” he adds to Peter. “What are you doing here?”

“Your son and I made a deal,” Peter says calmly. “If he helped me get out of Eichen House, I would come see you to impress upon you the reality of that with which he deals on a day to day basis.”

“You – made a deal? How? How did you even – ”

Peter holds up a hand. “It’s probably better if I start at the beginning,” he says. “Coffee, Stiles?”

“Oh my God, yes please,” Stiles says.

Peter gets them both coffee and shepherds them over to the sofa. He’s clearly in charge, and Tom is too overwhelmed to even worry about that. Stiles sits down and pulls his father next to him. He’s interested in the explanation in an academic sort of way, but to be honest he doesn’t really care. He’s not crazy. Everything else takes a far second place to that.

“So,” Peter says, “to start with, I’m a werewolf. Stiles is what’s known in our circles as a ‘spark’. An undeveloped magical talent. In his case, his primary talent seems to be what’s called The Sight – seeing the true nature of things, or being able to see into the past. So yes, the things he’s seen, the demons, the zombies, those were in fact ‘real’, or at least, mental interpretations of metaphysical fact.”

“Jesus,” Tom says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Stiles, I’m so sorry. I didn’t – we didn’t – ”

Peter holds up a hand to stop him. “It’s not terribly uncommon for The Sight to be treated as a mental illness, and Stiles’ circumstances made it particularly likely, for two reasons. The first is that it came on early. Most magical talents manifest during the late stages of puberty, by which point the spark is mature enough in some ways to handle them, even if they’re problematic. I’m not entirely sure why that happened with Stiles – sometimes it just does, without any sort of explanation – but my guess is that it had something to do with me. I’ll come back to that in a minute.

“The second reason is that I’ve gathered Stiles already had a psychological diagnosis when the visions started: post-traumatic stress disorder after the school shooting. And that was, from what I can tell, a perfectly legitimate diagnosis. But people already in psychological care are much more likely to be diagnosed with a mental illness when their talents come in, because people around them are already predisposed to thinking along those lines.”

Tom looks over at Stiles, a little bit anxious, but Stiles just shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault, Dad,” he says. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

“You tried to tell me they were real,” Tom says.

“I was thirteen,” Stiles says, “and by that point already fucked in the head in so many different ways I can’t even count them.” He reaches out and squeezes his father’s hand. “I’m not mad. Okay?”

Tom takes a deep breath, lets it out, and nods. “We’ll talk more about it later,” he says.

“There are some people in the psychological profession who are well aware of the supernatural,” Peter adds, “and some people like Stiles are lucky enough to happen upon them, or even attract attention through colleagues when they prove so resistant to treatment. Unfortunately, it seems like Stiles didn’t meet anyone like that until he came here.”

“Right, I – wait, I did?” Stiles asks, blinking.

Peter arches an eyebrow. “Morrell,” he says. “She’s a Druid.”

“She’s a _what_?” Stiles asks, mouth ajar. “Oh my God! Did she know the entire time?”

Peter nods. “Yes, she would have known you were a spark as soon as she met you. It wouldn’t have been difficult at all to put the pieces together.”

Tom is frowning. “She never said anything.”

“No, she did not,” Stiles says, feeling rage bubble up below the surface. “That bitch – how could she – knowing what I was – ”

Tom’s jaw tightens. “We’ll _definitely_ talk more about that later,” he says. “But for now, I need to know what’s been going on.”

“Well,” Peter says, “that brings me back to the subject of my part in this. You see, Stiles is my soulmate.”

“Your soulmate,” Tom says flatly, and shakes his head. “Why is that somehow more difficult to believe than ‘werewolves’?”

Stiles gives a snort of laughter at that, and even Peter looks faintly amused. “They’re rare, and occur most often between supernatural creatures. Werewolves are particularly prone to them – mating instincts – and if they connect with a spark, it’s a much stronger connection than it would be between two werewolves, because of the way magic forges bonds. I don’t want to get too technical. In any case, as it happens, I met Stiles before you moved away.”

Tom looks between Stiles and Peter. “You would have been _seven_ ,” he says.

“Believe me, nobody was more aware of that than I was,” Peter says. “Trust me, to lay eyes on a child and realize that they’re your soulmate is discomfiting to say the least. In truth, I was glad when you moved away. It meant that when I met Stiles again, it would be as an adult, most likely, and we could start on a fresh slate.”

“He’s not an adult,” Tom says, scowling. “He’s seventeen. How old are you?”

“Thirty-four,” Peter replies, without missing a beat. “Yes, I am exactly twice his age, but at least I’m younger than you, no?”

Tom pushes a hand through his hair. “I’ll deal with that later,” he decides. “Keep talking.”

Peter dips his head in a nod. “You moved away, Stiles became a somewhat troubled child, and then, when Stiles was eleven, Kate Argent murdered my family.”

“Why?” Tom asks.

“Because she was psychotic,” Peter says. “She believed that werewolves were no better than animals, and that killing them was fun. It’s really no more complicated than that. There were only a few survivors. Laura and Derek weren’t in the house, and I somehow survived inside, but was severely injured. I spent the next six years in – do you know what a locked-in state is?” he asks, and Tom nods. “Unfortunately for Stiles, my pain became his pain.”

“All those nightmares,” Tom mumbles.

Peter nods. “Mine. He dreamed of the fire. You have to understand – I never meant to hurt him. I wasn’t aware of what was happening and I don’t know that I would have been able to stop it if I was. But it seems that the connection between us, and the trauma, might have woken his talents early. Thus leading to the clusterfuck that’s been his life.”

Tom looks at Stiles again, and shakes his head. “Then when we came back here . . . you started dreaming about Peter.”

“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Peter says. “Last year – almost exactly a year ago now – I came out of my locked-in state and began to look for the people who had killed my family. Kate had had accomplices. I found them, and yes, I murdered them. I’m not going to lie or make excuses; I won’t even say I feel remorse, because I don’t.”

“Peter, we want him to like you,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“Honesty is important to your father, particularly during this state of confusion,” Peter says. “So that’s what I’ll give him. There was an insurance investigator, a chemist, three different thugs, and all of them were partially responsible for the murder of eight innocent people, including four children, so no, I don’t particularly feel bad about killing them. Then I killed Kate. That . . . didn’t go as well as it could have, let’s put it that way.

“Gerard Argent came to town, enraged over his daughter’s death despite knowing quite well what she had done to bring it upon herself. He captured me and tossed me in Eichen House to suffer, bribing the sheriff to enter into the system that I had been transferred to Folsom to await trial. And yes, when Stiles came back, we did end up communicating with other. It wasn’t a dream, per se; it’s something called a soulshare, sort of like a shared astral projection.”

“Of course it was,” Tom says, giving up entirely.

“We had something of a rocky start – Stiles was not at all interested in helping what he saw as a symptom of deepening psychosis – but after a while we managed to come to a truce and he began investigating in an attempt to find me. Then, when he was admitted to Eichen House, he found me entirely by accident.”

“And the people at Eichen House didn’t want anyone to know about what he had found,” Tom says grimly.

Peter nods and Stiles leans against his father more heavily. “Luckily for me, your son is a lot stronger than he looks, mentally speaking. Even after that, he continued to help me, and we struck up the bargain – if he would help me get out of Eichen House, I would have this meeting we’re having right now, so he could know once and for all that he’s not insane.”

“Jesus,” Tom says, for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t – I don’t even know where to start. Stiles, he’s a murderer. You helped a murderer escape from prison.”

“He only killed the people who killed his family,” Stiles says.

“That is _not_ an excuse,” Tom says. “We have a justice system – ”

“One that would understand werewolves?” Peter interjects.

“You know what, I’ve read the case file, it doesn’t say anything about werewolves in it but it still made it pretty damned clear that Kate Argent was responsible for the arson,” Tom says. “So don’t take that fucking tone with me. You killed them because you wanted to kill them, and that makes you a murderer.”

Peter considers this, then shrugs and says, “Yes, you’re right. I can’t argue with that. So let me make a deal with you, Deputy.”

Tom looks suspicious. “I don’t think I can trust any deal I make with you.”

“Oh, a deal is a deal, even with me,” Peter says. “So here it is. If you can guarantee me a fair trial – if you can guarantee that I won’t be erased and shipped off to a solitary cell to be drugged and tortured, if you can guarantee me that Gerard Argent won’t get his hands on me – then arrest me, if you like.”

Tom blinks at him, mouth slightly open.

“Now understand this, Deputy Stilinski – I will fight for my freedom, and I will fight hard. I have enough money to hire excellent lawyers, and there’s really only circumstantial evidence that I was involved in any of the murders that took place. There’s a reason I made them look like animal attacks. Plus the sympathy factor, after Kate killed my family – I might get jail time, or I might not. I will fight for my freedom because that’s important to me. But if you would like to arrest me, I will allow it, and I even swear that I will quietly serve whatever sentence I’m given. Because justice is important to you, and you are important to Stiles.”

Tom looks at his son, then looks at Peter. He shakes his head and says, “I’ll have to think about that. Not even going into the fact that I have no idea how I would guarantee any of that, and I do believe you have every right to want it guaranteed after what happened. So . . . I’ll think about it. And I guess I appreciate it.”

“You guess? Deputy,” Peter says, shaking his head. “And here I’ve been so generous.”

Stiles elbows him and says, “Quit while you’re ahead, you little fucker.”

Peter smirks at him but doesn’t reply.

Tom looks between them with narrowed eyes. “Stiles, I want to talk to you alone,” he says, and stands up abruptly, heading into the bedroom. Stiles follows, not bothering to tell his father that Peter will be able to hear every word they say. “Look. This . . . soulmate thing, which I am profoundly unhappy with. I need you to be honest with me. Has Peter done anything I need to know about? Has he made you uncomfortable in any way?”

“No, Dad, honest,” Stiles says.

“He hasn’t touched you?”

“Oh, well, we’ve made out some, especially when we were hiding out after we escaped Eichen House, but I’m super attracted to him so that didn’t make me uncomfortable at all,” Stiles says, and Tom sighs. “But it was all, like, with our clothing on, I swear. Barely deserving of being called second base. We haven’t done anything else.”

“Okay,” Tom says, and lets out a breath. “Thanks. For being honest, and not insulting my intelligence by trying to say you hadn’t done anything at all.”

Stiles laughs. “Well, you were seventeen once,” he says.

“True,” Tom says ruefully. “And so was Claudia. But the difference is, we were seventeen at the same time. Peter is thirty-four. He’s a grown-ass man interested in my son, so you have to understand that I want to shoot him.”

“Got it,” Stiles says solemnly. Then he says, “I think it’ll take some getting used to. But he’s really helped me, Dad. He helped me . . . believe in myself, when I didn’t know that was still possible.”

Tom sighs. “Guess I’ll go give him the shovel talk,” he says. “You wait here.”

Stiles nods, but leaves the door ajar because he is _not_ missing out on this conversation. He leans against the door as his father walks back out into the other room and Stiles hears the creak of the sofa when he sits back down.

“I don’t like this,” Tom says, his voice blunt. “Any of it. So give me a reason not to shoot you or call for backup right now.”

“I imagine your son would be upset with you,” Peter says.

“My son is seventeen,” Tom says, his voice heated. “He’s young enough that this soulmate stuff seems romantic to him, and lonely enough that he probably would have fallen for it from anybody. You _used_ him. He _broke the law_ for you. My son could go to jail because of his part in breaking you out of Eichen House. Do you understand that?”

“Your son helped me, so I could help him,” Peter says. “That’s not the same thing as using him.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Tom asks. “Do you want me to go through how many felonies Stiles probably committed in the past two months? Whereas your part of the exchange was, what, walking in here and giving me a history lesson? Those two things don’t compare.”

“They might if you shoot me,” Peter says. He sounds amused.

“You’re nowhere near as funny as you think you are,” Tom says. “I’m aware you helped my son. Trust me, I’m aware of how much this means to him, probably more than you are, because I, I’ve watched him deteriorate over the past few years and you – ” Tom stops and takes a deep breath. “You’ve probably saved my son’s life in the long-term, and I’m very cognizant of that fact. So, yes, the fact that my son doesn’t want you hauled off to jail does play a part in my decision making process. But I also have to deal with the fact that the people at Eichen House know damn well that he got you out, and now I have to handle that.”

Peter nods. “That’s true, but in the long run I don’t think you have to worry. They’ll have trouble proving what he did, and the people at Eichen House definitely _don’t_ want you looking much closer at the records of his stay. It would be easy for any lawyer to say that he wasn’t responsible for his actions because he had been drugged and abused, as well as his psychological problems, of course. The problem is Gerard Argent. He’s the one who’s going to harass your son until he finds out where I am. Right now he’s doing it the legal way because he thinks that will work. As soon as he realizes it won’t, he’ll move on to less savory options.”

“Like what?” Tom asks, his voice tight.

“Gerard is a killer from a family of killers,” Peter says. “He’ll do what he does best. But I have no intention of letting him anywhere near Stiles.”

“Well, hallelujah.” Tom sounds disgusted. “And what do you plan to do about him?”

“What do you think?” Peter replies.

Tom loses his temper. “For Christ’s sake! I’m already pissed enough about the fact that you manipulated my psychologically vulnerable son into getting you, a murderer, out of prison. Your solution to this is to tell me that you’re planning another murder? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Well, my family was murdered, I was horribly injured and spent six years in agony, and as of recently I spent ten months in solitary, being drugged and tortured,” Peter says, “so offhand I’m going to say: a lot.”

Tom groans and then mutters something Stiles doesn’t quite catch.

“I could have let you catch a glimpse of me from a distance,” Peter says. “Let you see what werewolves are. That would have satisfied my deal with Stiles. I could have tried to claim I was innocent and had been framed, tried to con you into liking me. I’m very good at that sort of thing. But I’m being one hundred percent honest with you, even though it complicates matters for me significantly, for Stiles’ sake.”

“How the hell is any of what you’re saying right now going to benefit Stiles?” Tom asks.

“Because he’s my mate,” Peter says. “You don’t have to believe it; I don’t care. I have no intention of letting him go, and I will not allow any harm to come to him. But you – you are very important to him. Your welfare is more important to him than his own, or mine, for that matter. You are the rock that he has built his life on. So you and I are going to have to find some way to get along. A lie like a claim of innocence isn’t sustainable long-term.

“Yes, I used your son, but I ask you, what were my other options? I wasn’t allowed to communicate with anybody else. The only people I ever saw were two orderlies who weren’t allowed to speak to me, and the people who came to torture me. Stiles was the only one I could talk to. So I asked him to get me out of the prison. There was no way he could have done it legally. All my records have been erased or falsified. And although neither he nor I blame you for this, keep in mind that when he told you about this conspiracy and how he was trying to help me, you assumed it was a delusion and you _had him committed_.”

Tom flinches but doesn’t argue.

“I asked Stiles to help me. Did I manipulate him? I suppose a little, but I never lied to him, and I held up my end of the deal. Was it absolutely even? In terms of difficulty, no, but in terms of importance, yes. I gave him what he needed more than anything else in the world, as he did for me. And believe me when I say that when he found out that was what he would get out of the deal, he went after it full throttle. He knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it, so really, any manipulation on my end was minimal. Stiles made his own choices. He’s seventeen, not seven. And he’s suffered enough that he had a right to decide he wanted to end that suffering.”

“Well.” Tom lets out a slow sigh. “Jesus Christ, what can I say to that? I don’t have an objection to this – this whatever-it-is – between you and Stiles. Soulshare. Not that my objections would matter, apparently. And I’m willing to forgive and forget on the whole ‘breaking you out of Eichen House’ thing because – you’re right. Stiles _did_ try to tell me. I could have helped him and I didn’t.” His voice gets rough for a few moments, but he keeps talking. “I could have verified that some of what he was telling me was true, but I didn’t, because – ”

“You were afraid,” Peter says, surprisingly quiet. “You thought you were losing him.”

There’s a pause. Then Tom says, “Yeah.” Another moment of silence. “So he did what he had to do. Okay. But I cannot and _will not_ condone you murdering Gerard Argent. The man has terminal cancer, for God’s sake. Let’s keep you hidden, keep you safe – I’ll even help with that, although it’s against my better judgment.”

“Let time do the dirty work for us?” Peter sounds amused again. “I suppose I don’t have an outright objection to that, but if he finds me, I reserve the right to defend myself by all means necessary.”

“Fine,” Tom says. They don’t talk about what will happen if he goes after Stiles. Both of them know the answer to that. “I have to call my lawyer. Do you have a place to stay?”

“Yes, I’ve found myself something. Stiles procured me a fake ID, so I – ”

“Stop right there. The less I know about where you’re staying, the happier I’ll be.” Tom stands up and the sofa creaks again. “I’ll expect you for dinner tomorrow. Six o’clock.”

“I’ll be here. Might I go say goodbye to Stiles?”

“Sure,” Tom says, and sighs. “Why not.”

Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed when Peter comes in. The werewolf smirks and sits down next to him. “Heard all of that, I presume?” he says, and Stiles nods. “You know,” Peter says, “there were times during all of this when I questioned your hard-headed devotion to your father. I assumed that it was misplaced, that he was who you had latched onto because you had nobody else. But now that I’ve met the man – no, he deserves one hundred percent of it. It’s not often you meet someone who’s decisive and strong-willed like that, yet still willing to acknowledge their mistakes and compromise. And of course, he loves you more than the world.”

Stiles nods a little. “Thanks,” he says.

Peter leans over and kisses the crown of his head. “You and your father have quite a bit to deal with, I think,” he says. “As do I. I won’t kill Gerard, since your father asked me not to, but I _am_ going to make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near my new digs. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and leans over for a real kiss. Peter makes it a good one, then leaves the room.

Stiles comes out of the bedroom a few minutes later, after he’s gathered himself, to find his father just getting off the phone. “Omar’s going to be here tomorrow at nine to talk over everything, and then we have a meeting at the police station at ten thirty,” he says, and Stiles nods. “And now,” Tom adds, “now that you can separate fact from fiction, you are going to tell me the whole story. I need to know everything, Stiles. Every law you broke, every person you pissed off. We’re going to have a lot of work to do, unearthing you from this heap of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Okay,” Stiles says.

Tom hooks an arm around his shoulders and hugs him tightly. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll get it sorted out. We’re in this together now.”

Stiles leans against him, smiles, and says again, “Okay.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally the only things I know about Valack is that he has a hole in his forehead and he gives people visions. So if my version of Valack has nothing else in common with canon Valack, I do apologize. =D

 

It takes quite a while for Stiles to get through everything that had happened. He tells his father about it in detail. Tom maintains an admirably straight face, though he groans a little when he hears about Stiles texting Chris with a picture of Allison. “Really, Stiles?” he mutters, but then waves for Stiles to go on.

He’s reluctantly impressed by Stiles getting Brunski arrested, if only because he obviously hates Brunski and everything he stands for. He’s made notes about what Stiles has told him about the treatment facility, everything he remembers, although he still can’t guarantee that all of it’s true. Everything from his first stay at Eichen House is still fuzzy.

The only thing he leaves out is the fact that Peter, not restraints, had caused some of his current bruises. He doesn’t want his father to freak out about Peter having hurt him, even at Stiles’ request.

After that, Tom starts making phone calls. At first, he refuses to let Stiles listen in, saying that he’d caused enough trouble, but then he changed his mind. “I can hardly argue that you’re nearly an adult now,” he says, “so I guess you ought to know what’s going on.”

He calls down to the station and talks to one of the other deputies, Tara, about what Eichen House had provided. Then he talks to the detective who had actually put together most of the evidence against Kate Argent. He has a long conversation with Dr. Melcher about his opinion on Stiles’ mental state, without mentioning that werewolves were a real thing. Stiles sits and listens quietly as his father makes arrangements to try to keep him out of jail.

By the time he’s finally off the phone, it’s mid-afternoon, and Tom says, “That’s quite enough of that for one day.” He pulls Stiles down on the sofa next to him and they watch Blazing Saddles and Fierce Creatures, and Stiles falls asleep on the sofa. For the first time in what seems like forever, he just _sleeps_. No drugs, no dreams, no astral projections. He wakes up still on the sofa the next morning, with a blanket tucked around his shoulders.

His father is already up, and has gone out to pick up some coffee and donuts. Stiles dives in and gives his father a happy smile. “You’re gonna spoil the shit out of me because you feel guilty about all the psych stuff, right?” he says.

Tom gives him raised eyebrows and says, “A man can’t want donuts for breakfast?”

“Awesome,” Stiles chortles.

“You’re still grounded,” Tom says. “I’m working out the details, but trust me, that grounding is coming.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, reaching for a second donut.

The lawyer, a softspoken man named Omar, shows up and Tom starts giving him the details that he and Stiles have agreed to share. They obviously can’t start blabbing about the supernatural to everyone, and it wouldn’t be believed anyway, so they’ve agreed on a modified version of the truth, stating that Peter had spoken to Stiles when he had wandered down the hallway during his first stay, and somehow convinced Stiles to come back for him.

Omar, of course, doesn’t want to admit any of that to the police, so now they have a newer, extra modified version of events to tell the police. Stiles starts taking notes so he can keep it all straight, and an hour later, they’re at the police station and he’s sitting in the interrogation room with Omar on one side and his father on the other. He feels surprisingly unconcerned. Peter is real. He’s not insane. Everything after this is just gravy.

The official from Eichen House, who Stiles has learned is named Evelyn Romero, is the first to come into the room, with the sheriff in tow. She looks smug and self-satisfied. “Well,” she says, “review of our camera footage shows Stiles going into the secure ward about ten minutes before the alarm was triggered.”

She obviously expects them to be surprised, but Tara already told Tom this. He says, “No, your camera footage shows someone about Stiles’ height and build going into the secure ward, using a keycard. He never faces the camera.”

Romero scoffs. “Who else are you suggesting it could be?”

“I’m not suggesting anything about who it is,” Tom says. “Only who a jury might not be convinced it is. But since you brought it up, let’s talk about that camera footage and the records you submitted to the police for Stiles, which state that he had not received any mind-altering substances during his stay besides his prescribed medication, and was never restrained.”

“That’s correct,” Romero says.

“Well, that’s interesting, because when you submitted the camera footage, it apparently didn’t occur to you to rewind far enough to the point – two points, actually – where your orderly Brunski assaulted Stiles on camera and, on one occasion, gave him an injection.”

Romero blinks. Her mouth opens slightly.

“Now, this is particularly interesting,” Tom says, “because there’s no record of that medication that was clearly administered on camera in his chart, which calls into question the validity of all of the submitted records. It seems obvious to me that portions of them, at least, are falsified.”

“We – we would never – ”

“Think about this, Miss Romero,” Tom says. “Why do you think I gave permission for his records to be released? It sure as hell wasn’t to benefit you.”

Romero’s jaw tightens. “It’s possible that an orderly might have taken such an action,” she says. “However, these broader complaints he has are baseless.”

“Well, we’ll see,” Tom says. “Because, due to the discrepancy in his records, I was able to get a judge to authorize a search warrant of your facility. They should be arriving any minute now.”

“I . . . I see,” Romero says. She clears her throat and says, “Back to the subject of Peter Hale.”

“Sure, let’s talk about that subject,” Tom says, and Stiles has to stifle a snicker.

“Your son clearly helped him escape.”

“The only thing my son ‘clearly’ did is leave an abusive, dangerous facility,” Tom says. “You have absolutely no proof that he interacted with Peter Hale at all.”

“So it’s just a coincidence that they disappeared on the same night?”

“Look,” Tom says, “I get that you’re desperate to blame Stiles for this because otherwise your facility is going to be shut down so fast your head is going to spin. But even if you can prove that Stiles helped Hale – which you can’t – it won’t help you any, because we’ll just say that he did it because his head was scrambled by the treatment at your facility. So if you’re smart, you’ll take a few steps back, because trust me, a search warrant for your facility is the least I can do to you.”

Romero is clearly torn for a few minutes. She says, “I have to make a call,” and leaves the room.

Sheriff Benson sighs. “Tom, look,” he says, “we both know your kid helped Hale. Just tell us where he is – or at least the last place you saw him – and we’ll put this all behind us.”

“Stiles did not help Peter Hale,” Tom says, “and we have no idea where he is.”

Benson rakes a hand through his hair. “I could arrest him for obstruction of justice,” he says. “Aiding and abetting a known fugitive.”

“You could do that,” Tom says. “I doubt you could make it stick, though. I can see how you hope that if you throw him in jail for a few days, or worse yet, send him back to Eichen House, it might soften him up and loosen his tongue. Let me tell you about why that isn’t going to happen. I’ve read the papers. The people of Beacon Hills are _damned_ upset that Peter Hale is loose in their town again. After all, they all thought he’d been sent to jail, packed off to Folsom, high security, et cetera. How do you think they’re going to feel when they find out that _you_ agreed to send him to a facility in their town, in exchange for political support?”

Benson’s face has gone white. “You – you can’t prove that.”

“Of course I can. Peter obviously wasn’t in Folsom. You signed off on his transfer papers. What the hell other explanation is there?”

“You don’t have copies – ”

“Yes, I do,” Tom says. “I looked up everything on Peter Hale the day Stiles was reported missing along with him. I have all of it. So how about we drop this whole thing, and Peter’s transfer to Eichen House will be marked down as a clerical error, and his escape from Eichen House is the inevitable result of him being transferred to a facility where the security wasn’t high enough.”

Benson looks between Stiles and Tom for a minute. Then he says, “Let’s talk in my office,” and turns and leaves. Omar stands up and hastens to follow.

Stiles drums his feet against the floor, waiting. The minutes stretch on. He’s beyond bored when the door opens again and a man walks in. He looks average, dressed in a suit and tie, but there’s a flash of something underneath. It’s not exactly a vision, just a feeling. Stiles doesn’t quite dare _try_ to use his Sight, because he’s afraid of what he might see.

“Hello, Mr. Stilinski,” the man says. “My name is Dr. Valack.”

Stiles immediately scoots back from the table, prepared to run the hell away, but it’s too late. The hole has opened up in Valack’s forehead, revealing his third eye. “Oh, God, is that brain tissue?” Stiles says, jerking his gaze away.

He finds himself standing somewhere completely different. It’s familiar, but it takes him a minute to dredge up the memory. The hospital ward where his mother had died, all white and pastel blue and quiet except for the hum of all the machines. And Valack is standing in front of him, third eye standing out in gruesome detail.

“Nope,” Stiles says, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Nope, nope, nope – ”

When he opens them again, he’s back in the police station, and Valack looks mildly surprised. “You’re a spark,” he says.

“Yeah, well, you can come on and _not_ light my fire, thank you very much,” Stiles retorts.

He blinks and he’s back in the hospital ward. Before he can manage to reorient himself, he hears a noise behind him and turns to see his mother standing there. She looks exactly how he remembers her from that last, horrible week of her life. Pale and skeletal, skin almost waxy from lack of nutrition, hair limp and lank. She smiles at him, showing that she has no teeth, and her gums are raw and bleeding, a side effect of the medication they had put her on. Her mouth is nothing but a bloody smear.

Stiles screams and backpedals. She reaches out for him, and his back is to a wall that hadn’t been there a minute previous. Her fingers touch his cheek, and he can see the skin peeling away from her yellowed nails, see the bruises underneath her sunken eyes.

“Przemyslaw,” she says, in a voice like a rusty hinge. “My dear little Przemek . . .”

“It’s not real,” Stiles says, his breath coming fast and sharp. “You’re not real, you’re dead, you’re not real – ”

“I’ve missed you so,” his mother whispers, leaning in towards him. There’s no warmth from her body, even so close. Her fingers are digging into his neck.

“You,” Stiles grits out between clenched teeth, “aren’t,” and he gathers up all his willpower and determination into one hand, visualizes it like a handful of sparks, “real!”

He slams his fist against his ‘mother’s’ forehead, right where Valack’s third eye would be.

Abruptly, he’s sitting in the interrogation room, his breath whistling in his throat. Valack has been knocked backwards and out of his chair. Stiles opens his mouth to scream at him, but the panic chokes him, closing off his airway. That’s probably a good thing, because a split second later he realizes that that’s exactly what Valack wants. What Eichen House wants. To make him have a breakdown, something so spectacular that his father will have no choice but to readmit him.

Fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white, Stiles leans against the table and fights for control of his breath.

“You’re strong,” Valack says quietly, getting back to his feet. “I’m going to have such fun breaking you – ”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t look,” he says to himself. “Don’t look, don’t panic, don’t look – ” Keeping his eyes shut, he starts edging towards the door.

A hand locks around his wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?” Valack asks. He sounds amused.

“This interrogation is being filmed,” Stiles says, still keeping his eyes tightly shut. “Get your hands off me right now or I’ll have you charged with assault and illegal detainment.”

“Oh, really,” Valack says.

“Yes, really,” Stiles says.

There’s a pause, and then a quiet chuckle before the grip on his hand loosens. “Sweet dreams, Przemek,” Valack says, and then he’s gone. Stiles hears the door open and close. He risks a quick peek between almost-closed lashes and sees that he’s alone. He collapses right where he’s standing, shaking like a leaf. He has to keep his mouth tightly shut over the building panic. He just has to hold it together until his father comes back to get him. That’s all. Just another minute.

“Stiles?” Tom asks, and Stiles looks up to see his father standing in the doorway, frowning. “You okay?”

“Yes, I am a-okay, peachy keen, absolutely not about to have a nervous breakdown on camera and get court-ordered into a psychiatric hospital!” Stiles blurts out. “Can we go home now?”

Tom’s jaw tightens, but he nods and says, “Yep,” and gets a hand underneath Stiles’ elbow, helping him to his feet. Stiles practically clings to his father’s arm, swaying back and forth as he’s ushered through the station. A minute later, he’s in the passenger seat of the Jeep with his head between his knees, his breath coming in huge, gasping sobs.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” Tom says, rubbing his back and the back of his neck. “Here, let’s try that counting thing, okay? Count with me – ”

Stiles does his best, focusing on his father’s callused hands, the warmth of his skin and the scent of his aftershave. Bit by bit, the panic starts to ease, little bubbles of it dispersing with each shaky breath. It takes a long time before he’s leaning back into his seat. “Can I – have one of my pills?” he asks.

Tom gives him the side eye, but doesn’t argue. “Sure,” he says, and reaches into the bag he always carries for the little bottle and a bottle of water. They haven’t talked about his psychiatric medication at all. He’s obviously going to need to be weaned off the Effexor, if he stops taking it, and apparently he’s going to need Xanax available a while longer. “What happened?”

“Dr. Valack – came in while you were gone,” Stiles says.

“Valack,” Tom says, frowning. “That’s – is that one of the shrinks?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Stiles swallows hard. “He’s – the man who tortured Peter. He has some psychic ability. He induces visions. Terrible, horrible visions. He – he made me see Mom, but – she was evil. Rotten. It was – ” He chokes the sentence off. “I got him to leave me alone, but – I think he was trying to make me – break down. So they could try to readmit me.”

“Hey.” Tom gets Stiles’ chin in his hand and turns Stiles so he has to look. “That’s not going to happen. I’m _never_ going to let that happen. Okay?”

Stiles nods, his breath whistling in his throat. “It was just – I’m thinking about how horrible it must have been for Peter. To have that happen, over and over – ” He chokes again. “Over and over.”

Tom smoothes down his hair and draws Stiles into an embrace, letting Stiles fold against his shoulder. He just holds him for a long time, and gradually the Xanax starts to kick in. Stiles relaxes bonelessly into his seat and stays quiet for the drive home. It’s not until he’s inside and on the sofa that he says, “Oh hey . . . what happened . . . during your meeting thing?”

Tom pulls over a chair so he can sit down across from Stiles. “Well, the long and the short of it is that you’re not going to be charged with anything, and they’re going to launch a full investigation into Eichen House and how the residents are treated.”

“Good, good,” Stiles mumbles. He closes his eyes for what feels like a long time. Eventually, something occurs to him and he opens them again. “They? Not we?”

“Not we,” Tom says. “I can’t be involved, Stiles; I have a personal stake in it.”

“That . . . is that why?” Stiles says. He sees his father open his mouth and says, “Tell me the truth.”

Tom sighs. “Okay, no. I resigned from my job as a deputy.”

“You resigned?”

“That was the preferable option to being fired, so yeah,” Tom says, rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

“They can’t fire you for, for protecting me,” Stiles protests.

“No, but he _can_ fire me for blackmailing him, or at least make me so miserable in my job that resigning is the best option,” Tom says.

Stiles’ eyes start to well with tears, which he figures he can blame on the Xanax. “I’m sorry,” he says. “God, Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t – I knew there would be consequences for, for me, but I didn’t stop to think about the consequences for you – ”

“Stop right there,” Tom says. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It is, though, I broke, like, _all_ the laws, instead of trying to get your help – ”

“Bucko, you had no reason to think I would help you,” Tom says. “I don’t like saying that, but it’s true. I think you made the best decisions you could, given how messed up you were. Are. I have no interest in working for a corrupt sheriff. I’ll find something better. Hey, maybe I’ll run for sheriff myself, what do you think?”

Stiles manages a wan smile. “I’ll make your campaign posters.”

“Good man,” Tom says, ruffling his hair. “Now, you want to go to the grocery with me, since we’re having your,” he grimaces but makes himself say the word, “soulmate over for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, perking up. He still feels loose-limbed and light-headed, but given everything that’s going on, there’s no way his father is going to leave him in the apartment by himself. “Peter said he likes spicy food. Can I make curry?”

“Sure,” Tom says, and they head out of the apartment.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The next day, Stiles looks at the McCall’s front porch and sighs heavily before ringing the bell. He’s not looking forward to this. It’s going to suck. It’s going to suck a _lot_. But there’s no way around it. He won’t be able to face Scott in school if he hasn’t talked all this over with him. As tempting as it is to just try to avoid or ignore Scott, he knows from experience that it doesn’t work.

Scott pulls the door open, his entire body raw and bleeding like he’s been whipped on every surface. “Hey, come on in,” he says, as Stiles shakes the vision off. “How are you doing? My mom said you weren’t, you know, really hurt bad. You want something to drink?”

“Sure, Mountain Dew if you’ve got any,” Stiles says, and of course Scott does. But when he comes into the kitchen, he sees Allison sitting there, fists clenched, knuckles white. “Hey,” he says to her.

She looks him dead in the eye. “Where’s Peter?”

Scott flinches. “Allison, I thought we – ”

“No,” Allison says sharply. “You want to play nice, you can do whatever you want, but I’m going to get an answer. Where is Peter Hale?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Somewhere safe,” he says.

Scott pales, and stammers, “I didn’t think – you had really – ”

“It’s a lot more complicated than you think,” Stiles tells him.

“How is you helping my mother’s murderer complicated?” Allison asks, her voice tight with rage.

Stiles looks over at Scott and says, “Why don’t you tell her?”

Scott ducks his head. Allison looks between the two of them, anger melting into uncertainty that then hardens into anger again. “Tell me what?” she asks.

“It’s not – not what you think,” Scott says. “Peter didn’t kill your mother.”

“He might not have struck the killing blow, but _he’s_ the reason she’s dead,” Allison says. “So don’t tell me he didn’t kill her like you have no idea what happened that night.”

“Have you thought about why Peter attacked your mother?” Stiles asks. Allison opens her mouth and says, “No, it’s not ‘because she was an Argent’. Peter was crazy, okay, but after he killed Kate, didn’t he settle down? Nobody was killed for weeks. Then out of the blue, he attacked your mother? Why?”

“I don’t care why,” Allison says.

“She was trying to kill me,” Scott says.

Allison’s head whips around and her jaw drops open. “W-What?”

“You know she didn’t – want us to be together. And we thought we had her fooled but we didn’t. We weren’t – we weren’t careful enough. And so she – ” Scott swallows convulsively. “She hit me with her car and, and dragged me into this garage. She had wolfsbane in this, this aerator kind of thing. She said it would look like an accident. An asthma attack. She said she – ” Scott swallows again. “She didn’t want you to give up your future for me. And then Peter came in. He could tell I was hurt because – he was still my alpha. And he didn’t attack her. She attacked him, when he tried to get to me. He bit her, but – he said it was by accident and I – I believe him. He was only trying to save me.”

Allison’s mouth is still ajar. She has to stop and take a deep breath. “Why – why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

“Because I was afraid you would hate me,” Scott says. “It was my fault. I just couldn’t stand not being with you. If I’d just left you alone, she wouldn’t – ”

“You’re blaming the fact that my mother tried to kill you on yourself?” Allison asks. She gives a strangled laugh and says, “I think it’d be as much my fault as yours. I was pretty complicit in that.”

“It wasn’t either of your fault,” Stiles says. “Look, Allison, I’m sorry about your mother. I really am. I lost my mother so I know exactly how much it hurts. And yeah, Peter did play a role in her death. But it’s not his doorstep that it should rest on.”

Allison takes a deep breath and then looks Stiles in the eye again. “Why did you help him?”

“Because he needed help,” Stiles says.

Scott bristles. “It’s easy for you to say that, you weren’t here when he was killing people.”

“Look, Peter did bad things,” Stiles says. “I’m not going to lie or make excuses for him. I mean, frankly I don’t care too much that he killed the people who killed his family – that seems pretty reasonable to me, all things considered – but what he did to you was awful. He shouldn’t have done it, period, full stop. But they put him in solitary confinement. They were _torturing_ him. Do you think that’s okay?”

“It’s not – what were we supposed to do?” Scott asks, frustrated. “He had murdered almost a dozen people, he had stalked me and driven me halfway crazy. Were we supposed to just let him go?”

“I don’t know, Scott,” Stiles says. “I really don’t. I’m just saying that Gulags Are Us was not the answer.”

“Why do you get to decide that?” Allison asks. “Who made you the judge and jury here?”

“I did,” Stiles says. “And maybe I’m not the right person. But who is? Fucking _Gerard_? Are you serious? Do you even know how evil he is?”

Allison presses her lips together. “Grandpa – he’s kind of – harsh, but – ”

“Dude, your grandfather is evil,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry to have to break this to you, but he’s the actual worst.”

Scott lets out a breath. “But we can’t just – let Peter go free. I still don’t understand why you helped him. I guess he probably talked you into it, made you feel sorry for him. He – he’s really manipulative, he can be – ”

“What, like, you manipulated him into telling you where he was living so you could storm the castle and get him sent to Eichen House?” Stiles says.

“Hey, look,” Scott says, getting angry, “you keep talking like you know exactly what we went through, but you weren’t here. You don’t understand.”

“Okay, then explain it to me,” Stiles says. “Peter did a bunch of bad things. He hurt you, and he scared you. He killed some guilty people, and when he was done, he stopped. Did he even call you on the phone after Kate was dead?”

Scott looks away. “Well – no, but – ”

“But you were too focused on the fact that suddenly, you had to deal with Gerard being in town. Gerard was hunting for him, and he knew that you were the way to get to him. So he and Victoria went on this, this war against you. They told you that you weren’t good enough for Allison. That you’d only hurt her, that you’d eventually lose control. They told you that werewolves are dirty and evil. They made you feel _small_. Isn’t that what happened?”

Scott still won’t look at him. “I – I guess, but – ”

“And you blamed all that on Peter because he’s the one who turned you into a werewolf, and yeah, that wasn’t okay, but how about we lay some of it at Gerard’s door, too? Because he was the one who was actually trying to hurt you. And when you couldn’t give Allison up, eventually Victoria tried to kill you, and Peter saved your life. For once, he did the right thing, just _because_ it was the right thing, and to pay him back for that, you got him put in the worst kind of prison there is.”

“It wasn’t – he just _found_ me, like – I knew I was never going to be free of him and – and that scared me,” Scott finishes quietly.

Stiles reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “Okay. That’s okay. People do dumb shit when they’re scared. It’s not like I’m angry with you – even Peter’s not, not really, I think he understands why you did it. But you have to understand why I did what I did. You call Peter manipulative? Have you been paying attention to what Gerard has done to you? I mean, whose fault do you think Victoria’s death really is?”

Allison snaps to attention again. “What do you mean by that?”

“Look, Allison, your mother hated werewolves, but to the point that she’d rather _die_ than be one?” Stiles asks. “Whose idea do you think that was?”

Allison’s face tightens like she’s trying not to cry. “You don’t know my mother. She – was like that. She honestly was.”

“Okay, yeah, because if she wasn’t, he never would have convinced her, but, he _did_ convince her. Your mother had her flaws, but she loved you. I don’t think she would have just left you like that. And your dad – let me tell you, your dad is really fucked up about this. He’s guilty as hell, because he feels like he should have done something, should have stopped her. And I think if she had really been resolved, he wouldn’t feel that way. I think he’d be less guilty and more angry. Gerard convinced her and your dad couldn’t stop him, and then he turned around and used it to manipulate you into helping him catch Peter Hale. Which, by the way, he only did because he’s dying of cancer and he needs an alpha’s bite to cure him.”

“Wait, what?” Scott asks, startled. “He’s trying to do what now?”

“He’s been torturing Peter in an attempt to get Peter to agree to give him the Bite,” Stiles says. “Because he’s dying. All that stuff he said to you about werewolves, about how awful they are and how they’ll eventually lose control and they should all be put down – yeah, he said all of that to keep you from gaining enough self-confidence to see what he was really up to, because he wants to _be_ a werewolf.”

“Oh my God.” Scott sits down.

“How – how do you know all this?” Allison asks, her voice trembling.

“Because I – ” Stiles is suddenly afraid of admitting it. But there’s no going back now. “Because I have magic. I have something called The Sight. It lets me see – underneath people’s skins, to who they really are. For a long time, I thought I was crazy. I’ve been on medication for my ‘hallucinations’ since I was eleven. I only found out that they were real after I moved here. Peter told me. He’s helped me learn to use my magic, helped me – figure out what’s real and what’s not. So I helped him. Because he was hurting. They were hurting him and it – it wasn’t right. Peter did bad things, but what they were doing to him wasn’t right.”

Scott and Allison look at each other. Stiles just gives them a minute. They know Gerard’s evil, he just has to give them a minute to get over their knee-jerk reaction to Peter Hale.

“If it helps,” Stiles says, “Peter’s talked to my dad, and he offered to stand trial for the murders he committed, if he could be guaranteed it would be a fair trial and not, you know, back to the gulag. He knows that he was wrong in the eyes of the law. I mean, I don’t think he regrets it – at least, not killing the people who killed his family – but in his shoes, how sane would any of us be? His entire family was murdered and he spent six years in excruciating pain. Who wouldn’t be a little nuts after that?”

“Yeah, I guess – I guess you’re right.” Scott doesn’t look convinced, but he seems to be done arguing, at least for the moment. “I don’t like him being free, but I – I can’t say he should go back to Eichen House. Not if that’s what was happening to him.”

“What are we going to do about Gerard?” Allison asks, her fists tightening on the back of the chair she’s leaning against.

“What do you mean?” Scott asks, wincing.

“He murdered my mother,” Allison says, “and then he used her death to, to make us hurt other people. He used her death to hurt _you_.”

“And he’s not going to let Peter get away,” Stiles says, “which, since he knows that I helped him, probably means a lot of trouble for me.”

“Okay, but what can we do?” Scott asks.

Stiles lets out another breath. “Well, since you ask,” he says, “I have an idea.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mildly NSFW. I mean, not so much so that I felt the need to tag the story as being explicit, but you probably wouldn't want your boss looking over your shoulder while you read it.

 

The Argent house is quiet, dusty, and dark. Stiles takes care to breathe slowly, tamping down his reaction to the place. He hopes that it’ll get better once Gerard is gone.

“Come on,” Allison says, walking briskly through the house. “No one’s home.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, following her up the stairs. The room Gerard has been using is surprisingly big. He guesses that he’s taken over the master suite, relegating Chris to one of the smaller rooms. Stiles doubts that Chris cares about this, but it still seems like an asshole thing to do.

“Are you sure this will work?” Scott asks anxiously, trailing behind them.

“Not entirely,” Stiles says, “but the theory is sound.”

The thing is, he doesn’t trust Gerard Argent any further than he could throw him. And while he understands why his father has forbidden Peter from killing him, and even understands why Peter has agreed to abide by this, that doesn’t mean that _he_ agrees. Gerard is dangerous, and he isn’t going to stop. Stiles isn’t going to kill him, because he knows his father would never understand, but he wants a little insurance. Just in case.

Once in the bathroom, Allison opens the medicine cabinet and pulls out a bottle. Stiles takes it from her and glances at the label. Gerard is past chemotherapy; this is some supplement which probably doesn’t do much of anything. But he downs the pills like M&Ms from what Stiles has seen.

“So mountain ash does what exactly?” Scott asks.

“It blocks supernatural energy,” Allison tells him.

“Which means that if Gerard somehow gets a hold of Peter and forces Peter to give him the bite, he’ll reject it,” Stiles says. He screws open one of the capsules and empties it into a Zip-loc bag, then fills it with mountain ash. It’s painstaking work, and he moves slowly.

“Won’t he notice?” Scott asks, frowning. “I mean, that he’s not getting his actual medicine?”

“He’ll probably just think he’s getting worse,” Allison says.

“He might not actually realize,” Stiles says, and glances up from what he’s doing. “So, Gerard is terminal, right? He’s got stage four or five pancreatic cancer. And the doctors have told him that there’s nothing they can do for him now, he’s just on palliative care. This,” he says, shaking the bottle, “is some enzyme, supplement thing. Which science says does not work. Okay, he’s desperate, I get it. But the fact is that this probably isn’t doing anything, and he’ll never know if he stops taking it.”

Allison nods and says, “Here, let me help you with those.”

They take the pills out of the bathroom, where there’s more room. They’ve been working about five minutes when Scott’s head jerks up. “I hear a heartbeat,” he says, and they hastily try to clean up. “Feet on the stairs.”

“Shit, Dad must have been in the basement,” Allison says, sweeping a handful of pills back into the bottle. “His car wasn’t here so I assumed – ”

“Allison?” Chris says, standing in the doorway. He frowns, seeing the three of them standing there. “What are you doing in here?”

Allison pauses with her mouth open and then says, hopefully, “Poisoning Gerard?”

Chris blinks at her. He blinks at Scott, then at Stiles. He looks at the little pile of pills. Comprehension seems to dawn. He looks at Allison again, and then Stiles watches the noose around his neck start to loosen, ever so slightly. “Okay,” he says, and turns and walks away.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Scott says, wheezing as he leans against the bathroom door.

“I can,” Stiles says. He looks after Chris and says, “Allison, why don’t you go talk to your dad? I think the two of you need to get some stuff off your chests. And hug for like, six hours. Scott and I will finish up here.”

Allison nods and says, “Thanks.” She leans over to give Scott a quick kiss, then leaves the room.

Scott is looking after Allison with a wistful smile, so Stiles gives his shoulder a light smack and says, “Come on, buddy. Let’s get this done.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles slumps onto Morrell’s sofa and gives her the side-eye. “Why am I here?” he asks.

“Well,” Morrell says, with that infuriating calm, “as the head psychologist at Eichen House, I typically conduct the discharge interviews. You seem to have skipped yours. I called your father and asked to arrange one, so I could evaluate you and make sure that you’re safe to be out of an inpatient facility.”

Stiles pretends to consider that for a moment. He knows all that; Tom told him before even scheduling the appointment. Then he says, “No, that’s not really what I meant. Why am I here? Why am I sitting in this office even though you know perfectly well, and have known all this time, that I’m completely sane?”

“Stiles,” Morrell says patiently.

“Okay, you’re right, that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Stiles says, waving this aside. “I actually am probably nuts in a very significant way. I mean, I genuinely had PTSD when they diagnosed me with that, and I have severe anxiety issues now thanks to everything else, but I’m not, and have never been, psychotic. I don’t think I’ve ever hallucinated in my life, actually.”

“Stiles, I don’t think – ”

“No, I’m serious,” Stiles says. “I’m _furious_ , actually. I know damned well that you’re a Druid. You knew I was a spark from the first moment you saw me. But instead of actually enlightening me, you played along with the idea that I had some sort of psychosis. And you know what? I’d like to know why.”

Morrell’s gaze has gone opaque. “It was necessary,” she says. “Things were out of balance.”

“Fuck you and fuck your balance,” Stiles retorts. “Are you fucking kidding me with that? You saw how much I was suffering and you did _nothing_.”

“It wasn’t my place to interfere,” Morrell says. “If you hadn’t found evidence of the supernatural world by now, it was for a reason. And I believe that what happened this past week proves that. Things are settling back into place, the way they should be.”

“So you’re saying that what I did would have been impossible if I hadn’t thought I was nuts?” Stiles asks.

“You never would have gone to Eichen House,” she replies.

“I wouldn’t have needed to!” Stiles retorts. “I would have known who Peter was from the start and could have helped him without needing anyone to lock me up! You were there that first time, you helped them convince me I hadn’t even seen him! How is that restoring ‘balance’?”

Morrell doesn’t flinch. “I did what I felt had to be done.”

“So why am I here?” Stiles challenges. “Right now, today, why am I here? Why did you want to do this ‘discharge’ interview with me? To convince me that none of what went on over the past few weeks actually happened? To try to re-admit me because I’m still acting like it’s all real? To see how close to a complete nervous breakdown I am?”

“How close are you?” Morrell asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Stiles says.

Morrell sighs quietly. “Stiles, I want to help you,” she says. “That’s my job. To help you. And I know you don’t have any reason to like me or to trust me. But I’m still trying to help you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want your fucking help,” Stiles says, and stands up. “Go ahead and recommend that they readmit me. My dad will just ask to have an outside expert – you know, a psychologist not employed by the abusive shithole I escaped from – evaluate me. It’ll never make it past a judge.”

“I don’t think you need to be readmitted, Stiles, but I’m concerned about you – ”

“You _should_ be concerned about me,” Stiles says, “because I’m going to have you stripped of your license and investigated by an ethics committee and charged with any crime I can think of that might be even remotely relevant. I’m going to be fine, Ms. Morrell. You’re the one who’s going to be in trouble.”

He turns and walks out, savoring the dramatic exit. He has no idea if he can do any of that, but it was satisfying nonetheless.

It’s about three o’clock when he gets home, which gives him plenty of time to do his homework before starting dinner. He’s still working on catching up, but the teachers have, fortunately, given him plenty of slack. Nobody outside of a few people knows where he was or what happened. He’s a minor, so the press can’t release his name in connection with Peter Hale’s escape.

His phone rings just after four. He’s alone in the apartment; his father is attending some meeting about Eichen House. He glances down at the screen and sees that it’s the number Peter had programmed into his phone at their dinner the previous night. “Hey, what’s up?” he asks, picking up.

“Did you know there are men watching your apartment?” Peter says. “Argent’s thugs, presumably.”

“What an asshole,” Stiles says.

“Mm. Could you could unlock your side window? The one in your father’s bedroom?”

“Yeah, okay. Are you outside?”

“Mm hm.”

Stiles goes into his father’s room and unlocks the window, sliding it up and carefully removing the screen. Peter comes sliding in a moment later. “You’re lucky we’re in an end unit,” Stiles says. “Are you sure they didn’t see you?”

“Of course they didn’t,” Peter says. “Not that I want to come and go frequently, mind you. But a few times here and there is probably safe.”

“Okay.” Stiles lets out a breath as they head out into the living room. “Speaking of Gerard, I was thinking about what to do about him. I mean, I know Dad won’t let you kill him, but I’m worried about what would happen if he found you. So I changed out his pills for mountain ash. If he catches you, I want you to go ahead and give him the Bite, okay? The mountain ash should make him reject it.”

“Bite rejection is fatal,” Peter says, quirking an eyebrow up. “Always.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Gerard’s problem, not mine,” Stiles says.

Peter laughs quietly and leans in for a kiss. He keeps it soft and gentle, then pulls away and says, “When your father told me not to kill Gerard, I don’t think having you do it instead was really his intention.”

“I’m not killing Gerard,” Stiles says. “I’m just, you know, providing a bit of insurance. If he forces you to bite him and he dies, that’s on him, not you, not me.”

“Your flexible morals are incredibly attractive,” Peter says, leaning in to ghost a breath over Stiles’ ear. “Did you know that?”

Stiles swallows hard. “Uh, no. Yeah. What?”

Peter laughs again, his mouth closing on Stiles’ earlobe, one hand sliding up the teenager’s back. “Come here,” he murmurs, and sits on the sofa, drawing Stiles onto his lap so he’s sitting sideways. He pulls Stiles into a kiss, his fingers tracing over Stiles’ jaw and down his throat. Stiles leans into it, letting Peter explore his mouth, trying to hold back the quiet little moans that want to escape him. He puts his hands on Peter’s shoulders, twisting himself so he’s straddling Peter, letting his hands travel up the back of Peter’s neck and twining in his hair.

“Easy now,” Peter says, but his actions don’t match his words, as he leans in to nip and suck at Stiles’ neck, sending little sparks of heat through Stiles that go straight down to his groin. He pushes himself against Peter, the pressure of Peter’s thigh between his legs nearly making him go insane. He rocks into it without thought as Peter kisses him again, the other man’s hands tugging his shirt out of his pants and sliding over the bare skin of his back.

“Just take what you need, Stiles,” Peter murmurs. “You deserve it, after everything you’ve done for me.”

“Oh,” Stiles pants. “Okay.” He grinds harder against Peter’s thigh. Peter’s hands dig into his ass, pulling him closer, and Stiles drops his forehead against Peter’s shoulder, letting Peter steady him. “I, I got this, I,” he stutters, and surprises both of them by biting down hard on Peter’s collarbone as he comes. His fingers dig into the back of Peter’s neck, and then loosen as his body relaxes. “Wow. That was. Wow.”

“Mm hm,” Peter says, with just a hint of amusement in his voice, his hand slowly rubbing up and down Stiles’ spine. His nose is pressed into the crook of Stiles’ shoulder, and he seems to be enjoying Stiles’ scent.

They sit like that for a few minutes, and then Stiles says, “I should probably change pants before my father gets home.”

“Most likely,” Peter says, and now he’s _definitely_ amused. But he lets Stiles off his lap. Stiles jogs into his bedroom, cleans himself up, and comes out in clean jeans.

“I’m serious, though,” he says, pointing at Peter. “If Gerard captures you, just give him what he wants.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Peter says, with a quick salute. Stiles makes a face at him and heads into the kitchen to start dinner. Peter follows and hauls himself up to sit on the counter, watching him chop and occasionally reaching over to lend a hand.

They’re still there when the front door opens and Tom comes in, taking off his sunglasses. He sees Peter there and frowns reflexively, but doesn’t say anything to him. Instead, he says, “Hey you,” to Stiles, leaning in to give his hair a quick tousle before pulling away to grab a beer from the fridge.

“Hey, how did it go?” Stiles asks.

“Eichen House is officially shut down as of now,” Tom says. “All the current residents have been transferred to other facilities. There’s going to be a serious investigation of a lot of different people. Of course, since it took a few days to get it all put through, a lot of those people have flown the coop by now.”

“What about the residents in the prison?” Stiles asks. He gives Peter a sideways look, but doesn’t ask any questions.

Tom gives a little grimace. “They’re still there. For now. The problem is that a lot of them aren’t human, I guess. They need special handling. Frankly I don’t even know who to call about that.”

“There are systems in place,” Peter says. “Authorities who are in the know. I can give you some numbers.”

Tom glances at him somewhat suspiciously, but then nods and says, “Okay. I’d appreciate that. Of course, I’m not a police officer anymore, so I don’t know if any of them will listen to me, but I guess it’s worth a try. Which reminds me – Stiles, I’ve got a job interview tomorrow at two, so I might not be here when you get home from school.”

“Okay,” Stiles says.

Peter regards them for a few moment and says, “There isn’t any way to make this not awkward, so I’ll be blunt. Do you need money?”

“No, I don’t need – ” Tom cuts off his knee-jerk reaction and sighs. “Thank you for the offer, but no. We have savings. We’ll be fine.”

“All right,” Peter says. “But the offer stands, should your circumstances change.”

Tom waves this off. He takes a long drink of his beer and says, “So I guess I won’t be arresting you any time soon.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Peter says.

“I still could,” Tom says. “Take you down to the station and such, since you offered to go quietly. But frankly I don’t know how I could guarantee you a fair trial in this environment. And I’ve thought about it. Thought about what you went through and what you did.” He’s quiet for a minute. “I think you’ve probably suffered enough.”

“Well, I do appreciate that,” Peter says.

“I’m still not comfortable with the idea that you might go out and kill someone else,” Tom says. “Don’t make me regret this, Peter.”

“I have no intention of starting any fights that will end in someone getting killed,” Peter says. “Only finishing them, should it come to that.”

Tom shakes his head. “That’s heartening. Thanks.”

“Dinner’s ready!” Stiles says.

They sit down together and have pork chops and mashed potatoes and green beans. Tom is still wary of Peter, feeling him out. Peter has a certain charm to him, but after seeing that it only irritated Tom, he’s toned it down. Tom is telling him about what’s been happening with the police and the officials at Eichen House and the many lawyers who are now involved.

“They’re really intent on proving that Stiles still needs institutionalization,” he says grimly. “They keep bringing it up, how he’s not stable and I can’t care for him at home. Oh, how’d that ‘exit interview’ with Morrell go?” he adds.

“I told her what I think of her and walked out,” Stiles says.

“Oh, great,” Tom says, rolling his eyes. “That’s going to help.”

Stiles gives a remorseless shrug. “We just need a shrink who can say that I’m healthy, that’s all. I’m sure we can find one of those. I’ll say I’m not having hallucinations any more.”

“I don’t know if they’ll believe that,” Tom says.

Peter is shaking his head. “No, you need someone who’s supernaturally savvy. I can make some calls.”

Tom’s eyes narrow. “You know, I’m starting to dislike the way you have a solution for every problem.”

Peter doesn’t flinch. “That’s happening because it was my _job_ ,” he says. “Before my family was killed. I worked at a law firm in my previous life. I was a fixer. It was my job to have connections, pull strings, solve problems. So yes, I know exactly how this game is played. You’ve been doing well so far, but there’s no reason not to let me help you. I have a fair bit at stake myself.”

After a moment, Tom sighs. “Okay. That – that’s probably good. I have to admit you know more about this, if only because this – this is your world, not mine.”

“Look at it this way, Dad,” Stiles says, “at least they didn’t manage to provoke me into a breakdown at the station.” He glances at Peter and says, “I didn’t tell you yesterday because – I think I was still trying to handle it. They sent Dr. Valack into see me.”

Peter lets out a low growl. “Did he hurt you?”

“He messed my head up real good,” Stiles says. “I got him to leave me alone, though. He didn’t realize I had magic. Why do they call him a doctor, anyway?” He adapts a Buzz Lightyear voice and adds, “I don’t believe that man’s ever been to medical school.”

Peter gives him a politely quizzical look.

“Oh my God! You’ve never seen Toy Story?” Stiles’ mouth hangs open. “Well, shit, now I know what we’re doing after dinner . . .”

Tom shakes his head a little. “Yeah, I’m still not happy about that. But nobody by that name is employed at Eichen House. I can’t find any evidence that the guy exists at all, for that matter.”

“Mm,” Peter says. “To be honest, I don’t know exactly what he is or how he came to reside at Eichen House. Gerard has been using the place, but he doesn’t own it. I’m not even sure who does, or if anyone does. The entire place seems to be possessed, almost sentient in its own right. We may have gotten it temporarily shut down, but it will come back, even if it’s not as an asylum.” He shakes his head. “A problem for another day.”

“Agreed,” Tom says.

They finish eating and then Stiles drags Peter over to the couch so they can watch Toy Story, which Peter views with polite incredulity. He becomes engrossed despite himself, and Stiles cozies up against his shoulder and revels in this, this _normalcy_. Peter might be twice his age and he might be a fugitive from the law, but they can still have dinner together and then watch a silly movie.

When it’s over, he insists on putting the second one on while he does his homework. By the time that’s winding down, Peter goes to glance out their windows. “Might I stay the night, Tom?”

Tom looks up from where he’s been sorting through paperwork on their dining room table. “Why?”

“Because there are people watching your apartment,” Peter says. “And while I _could_ shimmy out the side window, it’d be easier for me to simply stay here until they’ve gone. They’ll undoubtedly follow you out tomorrow morning.”

“There are _who_ doing _what_?” Tom asks, outraged.

“Surveillance,” Peter says. “Gerard’s boys. They know that eventually Stiles will lead them to me, if we aren’t careful.”

“I should call – the sheriff who’s on the Argent payroll,” Tom says, and sighs. “Sure. But you’ll sleep on the sofa, am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Peter says. “Still far better accommodations than I ever got in Eichen House. Or the hospital, for that matter.”

Tom goes to get him a blanket. When he returns, he gives Stiles’ shoulder a nudge and says, “You. Get to bed.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, grumpy. He leans in to give Peter a quick kiss, which Peter returns, albeit briefly. “And tomorrow we’re watching the third movie.”

“If you say so,” Peter says, with a quiet chuckle.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles flails at his alarm when it goes off the next morning, and drags himself out of bed. Peter is asleep on the sofa, but Tom is already up, so there are no shenanigans to be had. The noise of Stiles making breakfast wakes the werewolf, who says he’ll depart as soon as the surveillance is gone and call Stiles later. Stiles gives his sleep-mussed soulmate a wistful look before cramming a piece of toast in his mouth, grabbing his backpack, and heading out the door.

He meets up with Allison and Scott before the first class. Allison reports that although Gerard clearly knows that Stiles is protecting Peter, he hasn’t yet cottoned on to the fact that Allison and Scott are helping him. In fact, he’s encouraged Allison to try to get closer to Stiles, gain his trust, so she can find out where Peter is. As this is what Stiles was doing at the beginning in reverse, it amuses him somewhat.

After school, he goes straight home. His father is still out at his job interview, so he texts Peter to let him know that he’s home, and sets down to his homework.

Peter arrives about twenty minutes later, and he comes through the front door. “No surveillance today?” Stiles says, surprised.

“No.” Peter seems to think it’s odd, too, and he’s frowning. “I would have thought they’d be following you everywhere. They did leave when you left for school this morning.”

“Maybe they think they found some lead and went to check it out,” Stiles says, feeling uneasy.

“Perhaps.” Peter reaches out and runs clawed fingers through Stiles’ hair. “Don’t worry. Nobody will touch you while I’m here.”

Stiles nods and relaxes. “So those people from Eichen House who ‘flew the coop’, as my father put it,” he says, and Peter arches an eyebrow at him. “Did you kill them?”

“Not all of them,” Peter says. “Most of them I just sent screaming into the night. I did promise you that I would make them pay for the way they hurt you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles wonders if he should feel bad about this. He’s sure his father would be horrified. But he doesn’t feel bad, not really. He can still vividly remember his first stay in Eichen House, the way they had drugged him and messed with his head. He especially remembers the way they made him feel like his father wouldn’t want him back, and that’s not something he’s going to forgive. “Who did you kill?”

“Well, our fine Dr. Samuels, who gave the orders,” Peter says. “And one of the aides, who was mostly responsible for the mental torture they put you through.”

“Brunski?”

“No, not Brunski. I haven’t been able to find him.” Peter sees Stiles shudder and says, “But I will.”

Stiles nods. “Okay,” he says, and with that, he changes the subject. “You want to help me with my homework?”

“God forbid. School work was never my forte. I largely cheated my way through high school.”

“Don’t let my dad hear that,” Stiles says, and laughs. “I could put on the third Toy Story movie.”

“I suppose if you feel you must.”

Stiles has just popped it into the DVD player when his phone rings, and he glances down at the screen. “Hang on, it’s my dad,” he says, and swipes to accept. “What’s up, Dad?”

“Hello, Stiles,” Gerard Argent’s voice says. “I’m calling to tell you that I don’t think your father is going to make it home for dinner tonight.”

Everything freezes. Stiles feels his blood run completely cold, feels his stomach drop down into his shoes. “Where is he?” he demands.

“He’s with me,” Gerard says. “And I promise he’ll be perfectly safe as long as you do exactly what I say.”

“You son of a bitch – ” Stiles starts.

Peter reaches out and grabs the phone, hits the button to put it on speaker. “Proof of life,” he demands.

“Well, hello there, Peter,” Gerard says. “I see I’ve found you after all.”

“ _Now_ ,” Peter snaps.

A bare moment later, Tom’s voice is heard. “Stiles, call the police, don’t try to – ” and then he’s cut off.

“Yes, by all means, call the police,” Gerard says. “I doubt they’ll do much of anything, but you’re certainly welcome to give it a try. But when you’re finished wasting your time with that, I have some different instructions for you. I’m going to text you some coordinates. You have one hour – just the two of you, or just Peter, for all I care. And then we’ll discuss the terms for Deputy Stilinski’s – I’m sorry, for _Mister_ Stilinski’s – release.”

“Don’t, don’t you dare touch him,” Stiles bites out. “If you lay one finger on him, I’ll – ”

“As long as Peter is here on time, your father has nothing to fear,” Gerard says. “If he isn’t, however . . . well, let’s just say that Dr. Valack is very excited about meeting his new patient.”

Stiles goes white. His mouth opens and then closes. Before he can think of anything to say, the line disconnects. His gaze flickers up to Peter wildly.

“Come on, then,” Peter says, and leans in to brush his lips against Stiles’. “Let’s go give Gerard Argent _exactly_ what he’s asking for.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here we go!

 

It won’t be as easy as just walking up to Gerard, sinking his teeth in, and being done, Peter warns as he gets behind the wheel. Gerard is much too clever for that. He’s obviously got men who are working for him, and they’ll be protecting his flank. The two of them won’t be able to do this alone.

“He’s barely been getting the mountain ash for two days,” Stiles says, his hands knotting in his lap as Peter drives. “Will that be enough?”

“It will be,” Peter says calmly. “You just need to believe that.”

“I don’t – I don’t know if I can,” Stiles says, letting out a shaky breath. “I just still feel like I don’t know what to believe sometimes.”

Peter glances over at him and says, “Don’t think about magic, or werewolves, or psychiatric drugs,” he says. “Think about your father. Think about how you will not allow any harm to come to him. How you would _never_ allow him to be hurt. That you would do anything to prevent it. Believe _that_ , and everything else will fall into place.”

Stiles lets out another breath and feels his pulse slow down. “Okay,” he says. That, he can do. He takes a minute to steady his nerves before dialing his phone. Scott picks up on the second ring. “Hey,” Stiles says. “Are you alone?”

“Uh, no,” Scott says. “Should I be?”

“Depends on who you’re with. I need to talk to you, but I don’t want your mom overhearing. Allison is okay. Isaac too, I guess, if he’s in the know about werewolf stuff.”

“Yeah, he is, but hang on – ” There’s a shuffle and a low voice, and then he says, “Okay, I’m in my room. What’s up?”

“Gerard has abducted my dad,” Stiles says, and Scott makes a choked noise. “He’s going to force Peter to give him the Bite. So, we’ve got the mountain ash contingency, but that will only deal with Gerard, not his guys. I need you and Allison. Can I – can I count on you?”

“Hell yes,” Scott says. “Do you have any idea what my mother would do to me if I let your dad get – where should we meet you?”

Stiles tells them the intersection closest to the coordinates that Gerard had given him, and then hangs up. He takes several more deep breaths. A few minutes later, Peter pulls over at the side of the road. “I’m going to go scope things out,” he says.

Fear clutches at Stiles’ chest. “Be – be careful,” he says.

Peter leans in and brushes his lips over Stiles’. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Gerard is a good hunter. But I’m an excellent werewolf.” With that, he disappears into the forest. Stiles is reduced to pacing around the car, wearing a track in the loose dirt.

Allison’s car pulls up a minute later, and she and Scott both practically dive out of it. “What happened?” Allison demands.

Stiles sums up the phone call and tells them without hesitation that yes, a day and a half of mountain ash is going to be good enough. Allison goes into the trunk of the car and pulls out a modern-looking bow, then a crossbow. She’s barely gotten the bolt into it when she swings it around and points it at the figure emerging from the forest. It’s just Peter, but she doesn’t put the crossbow down.

“Allison, looking lovely as always,” Peter says, and then gives Scott a nod. “Scott.”

Scott’s jaw is set in a firm, unhappy expression. “I’m doing this for Stiles,” he says. “Not for you. I was happier when you were rotting in prison.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says, without batting an eyelash. “There are nine men total. Three in the clearing with Gerard, plus Chris and Dr. Valack. And then three on perimeter. Now, I didn’t want to handle them, because they all have radios, and if they don’t call in, Gerard will suspect something’s amiss, and we don’t want him to do anything rash. Therefore, we’re going to have a very small window. It will take probably about five to ten seconds for Gerard to realize he’s gone into rejection.”

Allison and Scott look at each other, then Scott says, “You’re the distance fighter, so you take the guys on the perimeter. I can be in the clearing with Stiles.”

“I can’t get all three,” Allison says. “Not in less than ten seconds.”

“What if we could get you up high?” Peter asks. “There are a number of trees that I think would suit.”

Allison glances at him as if she wants to object to him breathing the same air as her, but then nods. “Yeah. As long as there wasn’t too much obscuring my sight.”

“I have just the place in mind,” Peter says, smiling at her.

She looks at him like she’s about to put a knife in his side, then looks at Scott and says, “Be careful. I don’t know what my dad will do, if he’ll recognize you.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and they exchange a quick kiss.

“Stiles, you stay with me,” Peter says. “Gerard will be expecting to see you, and he’ll be suspicious if you aren’t there. I’ll keep him perfectly safe,” he adds to Scott’s scowl.

“Why?” Scott asks. “Why do you even care?”

Peter glances at Stiles and says, “You didn’t tell him?”

“It’s kind of, I don’t know, private,” Stiles mutters, but since both Scott and Allison are staring at him, he says, “There’s kind of, uh, a mystical type bond thing, I guess, between – ”

“Stiles is my soulmate,” Peter interrupts. He’s giving Stiles a look that’s almost amused. “You’re embarrassed by me all of a sudden.”

Stiles doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is that it’s not embarrassment, it’s just not wanting to lose the only friend he’s ever had over the classic ‘he doesn’t like my boyfriend’ trap. “Can we talk about this, I don’t know, _later_?” he grits out. But to Scott, he says, “Yeah, Peter’s my soulmate. I guess when a werewolf meets up with a compatible spark, blah blah magic blah, which is why I could talk to him while he was in prison.”

“Are we supposed to believe that means anything to him?” Scott asks, glowering at Peter.

Peter goes quiet and still for a moment, then says, “Scott, you have every right to dislike me, but I lost almost my entire family. I don’t intend to lose anyone else. Period. Is that clear?”

Scott looks away, then nods.

“Then let’s get this done,” Peter says.

They move into the forest. Scott offers to help Allison up into the tree, but she reminds him that she was a gymnast, and does it herself. A minute later, she texts Stiles to let him know that she’s found a good position. She can see all three men in the woods, although her view of the clearing itself is somewhat obscured. Stiles will have to text her at go-time.

Scott breaks off from them so he can stay out of sight, and Peter and Stiles walk into the clearing together. He has Tom on his knees with a gun pressed into the back of his head, and the bruises on Tom’s face and blood that’s dried on his chin makes it clear that he hasn’t been easy to keep captured. Stiles’ heart leaps into his mouth, and he takes another deep breath.

Gerard ostentatiously checks his watch and says, “Barely even forty minutes. I’m impressed.”

“We hit all the green lights,” Peter says, smiling pleasantly. “Now, I’ll be having my soulmate’s father back, if you don’t mind.”

“Your soulmate?” Gerard gives a genuinely amused laugh. “Is _that_ how you conned him into helping you? I would have expected better, to be honest.”

“Eat a dick,” Stiles snaps.

Peter gives him an amused glance, one eyebrow arched, but then turns back to Gerard. “I assume you don’t plan on letting him go until I’ve given you the Bite?”

“That’s the plan,” Gerard says.

“And what’s to prevent you from shooting him once I’ve done so?”

“I presume you have something in mind,” Gerard says.

Peter nods. “Give the gun to your son,” he says, and Chris looks over, surprised, the noose slowly tightening. “The ever-honorable Chris Argent. If I hurt your father, feel free to shoot the deputy. If I do as told, let him go.” He looks at Gerard and says, “Acceptable?”

Gerard looks at his son, and nods. Then he hands the gun over to Chris. Chris takes it and presses it into the back of Tom’s shoulder, rather than into the back of his head, the way Gerard had been holding it. Stiles breathes a little easier. He frankly doesn’t know whether or not Chris would shoot his father if Peter kills Gerard, but their window before the rejection kicks in will be enough to get the gun pointed somewhere else.

“You stay here,” Peter says to Stiles, who nods and tries not to hyperventilate. He clutches at his phone, the text to Allison already entered and ready to send. Peter walks forward slowly, hands raised to show that he’s not holding a weapon. “Where would you like it?” he asks, with false cheer. “Shoulder? Arm? Side?”

“Arm will do nicely,” Gerard says, rolling up his sleeve and extending his arm. “Don’t get too close,” he adds. “We wouldn’t want Chris to get jumpy.”

Chris’ mouth purses in a sour expression, but he says nothing. Peter nods, his face shifting, eyes glowing red as his fangs extend. Stiles closes his eyes and focuses on Gerard and the feeling of the mountain ash between his fingers and he _believes_. Mountain ash is powerful. A little goes a long way. He reaches out to that magic and feels the sparks at the ends of his fingertips.

Peter sinks his teeth into Gerard’s arm. It only takes a second. Then he withdraws, taking a few steps backwards.

“My dad,” Stiles says, his voice tight with anxiety, unable to help himself. “Let him go. Now, God damn it!”

The cursing is unnecessary. Chris has already moved the gun away from Tom’s shoulder, and even has a hand underneath his elbow, helping him back to his feet. Tom shakes off Chris’ hand as soon as he’s up, and Chris backs away, the noose tightening further. Gerard barely notices any of this, looking at his arm with a smug expression on his face.

“Don’t go far,” he says to Peter with an ugly grin. “We aren’t done yet – ”

There’s a _thwip_ noise and a thud from the forest. Gerard’s head jerks around, the grin dissolving into a frown, and then he notices the trickle of black liquid coming from the bite wound.

“Guess what,” Stiles says to him, and he’s got something really pithy to say, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but before he can figure it out, Gerard interrupts.

“Kill them all!” he howls, and Stiles has a moment to reflect on what a drama queen the old man is, before Peter surges forward, catching Tom across the chest and knocking into Stiles so all three of them wind up sprawled on the forest floor. Peter’s shifting as he goes, his enormous alpha form blocking the sudden hail of bullets.

It lasts about five seconds, which is an awfully long time when he’s pinned to the ground with two fully grown men on top of him. There’s a thud and a muffled shout and then the snapping noise of broken bones, and another thud.

The weight is lifted off him, and Stiles scrambles to his knees. “Dad!” he says.

“I’m all right,” Tom says, half-twisted around to see Peter, grunting in pain as his body pushes out the bullets. “Jesus Christ.”

Scott is standing a few yards away, blood on his face but otherwise looking unharmed. He’s partially shifted, eyes gleaming gold. Chris is standing with his gun half-up like he wasn’t sure who to fire at, and Gerard’s goons are on the ground, groaning in pain.

Gerard says something, but it’s garbled, and a torrent of black bile comes out of his mouth. He goes to his knees, writhing and clawing at the ground.

“Where does he think he’s going?” Peter asks, and he sounds amused again, like he hadn’t been shot a dozen times bare moments previous. But Stiles is following Gerard’s sight line, because he can tell somehow that Gerard has some purpose in mind, and he flinches away as Dr. Valack gets up from where he’s been sitting on the ground.

“Mr. Hale,” he says. “You missed our last session,” he continues, with a ‘tsk tsk’ noise, and Stiles feels Peter’s body stiffen against his. There’s no defense against this, nothing that any of them can do against Valack – even if Stiles can fight off the illusions himself, he can’t help Peter do it, he doesn’t know how, and panic is rising in his throat just from looking at expression of reluctant terror on Peter’s face.

There’s a bang so loud that Stiles instinctively claps his hands over his ears, and a hole opens up in Valack’s forehead – but it’s not his third eye. It’s in the exact same place, and he collapses onto the ground, twitches once, and goes still. Stiles jerks around to see Chris Argent standing with his gun up. Everyone watches in silence while he walks over to his father, who’s trying to push himself up to his hands and knees, but can’t stop convulsing.

Chris watches him for a long moment, and nobody says a word. Nobody even breathes, not even Peter. Then Chris says, “It’s over,” and then, “sorry,” and he points the gun down at his father and pulls the trigger twice. The noose loosens and then slides off, and for a minute Chris just closes his eyes, like he can finally breathe again.

“Jesus Christ,” Tom repeats.

“Dad!” Allison runs forward, into the clearing, and throws herself into her father’s arms. He catches her and hugs her tightly.

Stiles directs his attention towards his own father. “Are you okay? We should take you to the hospital – ”

“I’m fine, Stiles,” Tom says firmly. “They just roughed me up a bit, that’s all.”

“But you could be – ”

“Just some bruises,” Tom says, and tousles his hair. “I’m okay. I promise.” He looks over at Peter and a frown crosses his face. “What about you?”

“Good as new,” Peter says, stretching his arm out and wiggling his fingers.

Scott is looking between Peter and Stiles with a puzzled expression. “You didn’t – I didn’t think you would – get hurt like that. To protect him.”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t have been my first choice,” Peter says, “but our options were quite limited.”

“I thought you would, you know, help me beat up Gerard’s guys,” Scott says.

Peter arches an eyebrow at Scott and says, “There were three of them, and two of us. No matter how fast we were, one of them would have gotten a shot off. It seemed more prudent to protect Stiles and his father while you took care of the problem, seeing as I knew I would be able to heal the damage.”

“I guess,” Scott says. “I mean, yes, I just wouldn’t . . .”

Peter gets to his feet and helps Stiles up as well. “Stiles is my soulmate,” he says. “I don’t particularly care who believes me about that or who doesn’t. But I will not allow any harm to come to him. Ever. Is that clear?”

“Sure,” Scott says. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I know that you have no reason to trust me,” Peter says. “I’m not going to make excuses for my behavior. I did horrible things, and I did some of them to you. For what it’s worth, I’m not angry at you for betraying me to Gerard. Now that I’m a little more sane, at least. I thought about it and realized that in your shoes, I would have done the exact same thing. We don’t need to be friends, but I think we are, in some regards, even.”

Scott glares at him for a long minute, then sighs. “Yeah, okay. Water under the bridge.”

Stiles helps his father to his feet, and Tom says, “Was that supposed to be an apology, Peter? Because I notice the words ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I apologize’ never actually left your mouth. Try harder.”

Peter looks at him and grimaces a little. Stiles shrugs. He’s not about to get involved in that. “I’m not very good at apologies,” Peter says.

“Practice,” Tom tells him.

Sounding somewhat put upon, Peter says, “I apologize, Scott.”

“Thanks,” Scott says.

“It’ll do.” Tom still doesn’t sound thrilled.

At this, Chris speaks up, finally letting go of Allison. “I’m going to need some time to get all this cleaned up,” he says. “Scott, will you take Allison home?”

“Sure,” Scott says, going over to Allison and sliding an arm around her waist.

Stiles turns to go as well, because he wants to get his father to a place that has ice packs, but Chris says, “Not you. Not yet. I need the answer to a question before I can let Peter Hale walk away.”

“Shoot,” Peter says, then adds, “Not _literally_ , please.”

Chris doesn’t look amused, but continues. “Why did you kill your niece? Everything else you did, I can understand it even if I can’t condone it. But Laura was innocent. She was your family.”

“Because I needed her power to heal,” Peter says. “Again, I won’t excuse my actions. I won’t even say that I was insane. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I would have done anything to end the pain. Your lovely sister infused her accelerant with wolfsbane. You can’t even imagine the agony that would cause.”

After a moment, Chris gives him a nod. “You hurt anyone else, and I’ll put a bullet in your head,” he says. “One that you won’t walk away from.”

“Understood,” Peter says.

Chris turns away. Allison and Scott are already walking through the forest. Tom shakes his head a little and gets Stiles by the elbow. “Come on, kiddo,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, everybody!

 

Tom is still eyeballing Peter warily as he lets them into the apartment, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Stiles is predisposed to fuss; he wants to be absolutely sure that his father is okay, and insists on making him some tea and sitting him down in his recliner. “Stiles, I’m fine,” Tom says multiple times, which has absolutely no effect.

“Should I stay?” Peter asks, as Stiles tucks a blanket around his father’s legs.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, then looks at his father.

Tom sighs. “Yeah. Sit,” he adds, and points to the sofa. Peter arches his eyebrows, but does as he’s told. “What happened to Gerard?”

“A certain percentage of people have an adverse reaction to werewolf bites,” Peter says, and waves this aside. “Think of it like a severe allergy. Eat a peanut, go into anaphylactic shock. Get a werewolf bite, die in a puddle of congealed blood.”

“Uh huh.” Tom doesn’t look impressed. “And it just so _happens_ that Gerard had this allergy.”

“So it would seem,” Peter says.

“Okay,” Tom says, “understand that you’re on thin enough ice to begin with. If you’re lying to me about this – ”

“I did it,” Stiles interrupts, and his father stops talking, looking at him in surprise. “I snuck mountain ash into Gerard’s pills. It blocks supernatural power, so it would cause a rejection.” He chews on his lower lip, but then meets his father’s gaze. “He wasn’t going to leave us alone. I wanted – I _needed_ to protect Peter from him.”

“Jesus, Stiles,” Tom says, closing his eyes. “Do you realize – ”

“I didn’t kill him,” Stiles says, his jaw jutting out stubbornly. “Mountain ash is harmless on its own. It wasn’t going to hurt him. If he hadn’t forced Peter to bite him – hadn’t tried to hurt you – then he’d be fine. He’s the one who did that. Not me.”

Tom stares at him. His mouth works for a moment and then he rubs his forehead with the heel of his hands and mutters, “Christ.”

“You know,” Peter says quietly, “I think perhaps Stiles has a better command of justice than either of us. You don’t approve of my lack of scruples, of course, for which I can hardly blame you. But Gerard did make it clear today that simply trying to stay out of his reach was never going to work.” Peter reaches out and rubs his hand up and down Stiles’ back. “I find Stiles’ solution to be . . . elegant. Gerard wrote the ending to his own story.”

“It _is_ kind of hard to have sympathy for the guy who had a gun to my head an hour ago,” Tom says, and shakes his head. “Okay. Stiles, you and I are going to talk more about this later, but okay. Peter, what are your long-term plans now that Gerard is . . . dealt with? You can’t stay in Beacon Hills. You’re a wanted fugitive, for crying out loud.”

Peter shrugs. “I’ll make it work.”

Tom sighs. “Look. I need to find a new job. Should I be looking somewhere other than Beacon Hills?”

Stiles straightens up at this. “No, Dad, I . . . I don’t want to move again. I don’t want you to have to give everything up for me. You and Melissa are really good together, and I . . . I have friends here. I want to stay here.”

“Even if it means you don’t get to see Peter as often?”

Stiles hesitates, but then says, “Yeah. I mean. I don’t need him in my back pocket. I mean, skype is a thing that exists, if nothing else.”

Tom seems to relax at this. “Okay. Then I think we can probably make it work. But I have one more condition,” he adds, and Peter’s eyebrows go up again. “That list you gave us, of psychological professionals who were in the know about all this supernatural crap. There were five names on it. Stiles has an appointment with one of them tomorrow, as it happens. You,” he says, and points at Peter, “can pick any of the other four.”

Now Peter’s eyebrows are really arched. “You expect me to see a therapist?”

“Your family was murdered, you spent six years in agony, and then you killed a bunch of people,” Tom says. “After that, you were put in solitary confinement and tortured for ten months. That sounds like a pretty good reason to need a therapist to me.”

Peter seems amused. “I have no idea what I would say to one, to be honest.”

“Yeah, it’s not like you love to talk about yourself or anything,” Tom says.

Stiles gives a snort. “He’s got a point,” he says, and Peter shoots him a look. “Maybe it would help,” Stiles offers. “I want you to be okay, you know?”

“I’ll consider it,” Peter says.

For a minute, it looks like Tom might point out that he wasn’t making a suggestion, but then it seems to occur to him that forcing someone into therapy might do more harm than good. “Okay. I think that’s probably enough for one afternoon. How about we watch a movie?”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Are you crying?” Stiles asks incredulously.

“They’re holding hands in an incinerator, for God’s sake,” Peter says, making a suspicious snuffling noise. “I’m not made of _stone_.”

Stiles buries his face in Peter’s shoulder and laughs until his stomach aches.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is a little nervous about school the next day, but nobody bats an eyelash at him, so apparently the majority of Beacon Hills is still in the dark. He’s standing at his locker when someone says his name, and he looks up to see Lydia standing there. She wastes no time on preamble. “Scott and Allison told me what happened.”

“All of it?” Stiles asks warily.

“I’ve known about werewolves and everything since last spring,” she says, and waves this aside. “Peter attacked me after the school dance. And before you ask, no, I don’t have a particular problem with you having broken him out of prison. I was never one hundred percent sure he was responsible for Allison’s mother’s death – there were discrepancies, you know? It didn’t make sense to me, but Allison was too upset for me to question it.”

Stiles nods a little. “Okay. So, uh . . .”

“Peter always struck me as a wild animal,” Lydia continues. “Dangerous, but not malicious. He was feral. Hurt, and cornered. So he lashed out. I got caught in the crossfire. But it wasn’t _personal_.”

“Well, he can be capable of making it very personal,” Stiles says dryly, thinking of the fate of the Eichen House officials. “But that’s sort of not the point. Anyway, I’m glad you know. Now that I know I’m not psychotic, it’s nice to have friends that I can actually talk about this shit with.”

Lydia nods a little. “I wondered about that. If it was some sort of magic.” She lets out a breath. “But I wasn’t sure. I was doing research, looking for a way we could find out, maybe prove that what you were seeing was real. I asked Scott and Allison not to say anything to you about supernatural stuff until I could be sure, because – I didn’t want to give you false hope, or make things worse. But then you went back into Eichen House before I could find a way.”

Stiles looks at her in surprise, but then nods. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says.

“You’re not mad?”

“Nah,” he says. “You were right. If you’d just come up to me and said ‘Stiles, I think you might be magic’ and then you’d been wrong, I probably would have jumped off a building.”

Lydia looks relieved. “Anyway. I’m not a huge fan of Peter Hale, but I know that Gerard Argent was way worse.” She looks pensively over her shoulder as Scott and Allison come around a corner. Isaac is between them and has an arm around each of their shoulders. “I think that things will be okay now. But obviously, if you have a boyfriend, I need to meet him.”

Stiles laughs. “I can’t really bring Peter out on a double date, you know? He’s not the type. And even if he was, I don’t want to shove him down Scott and Allison’s throat. I mean, he did some pretty awful stuff to them.”

“Well,” Lydia says, and rolls her eyes, “obviously they won’t be invited, then. I’m sure that you can think of something that the three of us would enjoy.”

“I’ll mull it over,” Stiles says.

“How’s your dad taking it?” she asks.

“He’s pretty freaked out,” he says. “I think less by ‘werewolves are real’ and more by ‘I forced my son into unnecessary psychological treatment for seven years’, no matter how much I try to convince him that it wasn’t his fault. And he’s not Peter’s biggest fan, that’s for sure. But he’ll get used to it.”

The first bell rings, and Lydia glances up. “Okay, later you’re going to have to tell me all about the magic you’ve learned,” she says.

Stiles grins at her. “It’s a deal.”

“Hey, man, what’s up!” Scott says, breaking free of Isaac’s arm and jogging over to Stiles. “How’s your dad, is he feeling okay?”

“Yeah, he’s all right,” Stiles says. “A little shaken, but, you know. I think everything’s going to be okay.” He looks over at Allison and says, “How’s yours?”

“Same,” she says. “He keeps apologizing for everything that happened, no matter how many times I tell him that he doesn’t need to.” She shakes her head a little and says, “I’m still really angry at my mom, but I think . . . I think maybe I still need some time to think about everything that happened. Dad is talking about taking me to France this summer, you know, to get some distance from everything.”

“Be careful leaving these two behind,” Lydia says, smirking at Isaac and Scott. “Who knows what they might do in your absence?”

Allison tosses her hair and says, “They can do whatever they want, as long as they send me photos.”

Lydia whistles and Stiles laughs, while both Scott and Isaac turn pink (but don’t actively protest).

“Hey,” Scott calls after Stiles as he heads to class, “you’re coming to the game on Friday, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Stiles agrees, and Scott’s grin makes him feel like maybe they’ll all be okay, sooner or later.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles has itchy feet after school. His father is at a job interview, and he doesn’t have the Jeep, so he just walks around town for a little while, thinking. Scott has gone off with Isaac and Allison, on one of their dates, and Stiles is happy for him. He’s also happy to have a little time to himself. As much as he loves his father and he loves Peter, he’s been feeling a little smothered lately.

After a while, he walks over to Eichen House. He can’t say his feet ‘took him there’. He wants to go. He wants to see it, maybe needs to see it, closed and emptied and no longer able to hurt anyone. The weather is good, just a little cloudy, but the temperature drops a few degrees as he approaches, and there’s a thin layer of fog around the old building. The darkness that surrounds it is lessened, but it’s not gone. He hopes that it’ll just take time for it to go away, for the pain that everyone had suffered there to gradually disappear, but somehow he knows it’s not the case. He thinks of the internment camp and the hospital and all the bad things that have happened there, and wonders which came first: the darkness or the horrors that have taken place on the soil.

“It’s not gone, you know,” a woman’s voice says, and Stiles turns around to see Marin Morrell standing behind him about ten feet away, looking up at Eichen House with the same pensive expression. “It’s just asleep. It’ll come back. It always does.”

Stiles glares at her and says, “Explain to me why you haven’t been arrested yet.”

Morrell gives an elegant shrug. “I posted bail. Anyway, the civil lawsuit is much more concerning than the criminal one. Your father is, as promised, suing the pants off everyone involved with Eichen House and your treatment there. It might not give you any comfort whatsoever, but this is probably going to make you rich.”

“Yeah, let’s talk about how little I care about that,” Stiles says. “I mean, I got to sleep in a vault with a hundred and seventeen million in bearer bonds for two days. I’m not exactly worried about money.” He scowls more fiercely and says, “I’m surprised Peter hasn’t killed you.”

“Like he did Dr. Samuels and a couple of the others?” Morrell asks. “You do know about that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know about that. I’m not naive, you know. I know what kind of person Peter is.”

Morrell nods and doesn’t argue. “Peter probably doesn’t want to take on a Druid unless he absolutely has to, and he probably suspects that I had my reasons for what I did. But he wouldn’t say that to you. It’s easier for you to hate everyone involved with what happened, so why would Peter make you mad by suggesting that I’m not the bad guy?”

“Are you seriously saying you aren’t?” Stiles asks.

“Can I be honest with you, Stiles?” Morrell replies.

“I’m not sure,” Stiles snipes. “ _Can_ you?”

Morrell doesn’t rise to his baiting. “Have you ever been in class or at home and someone’s car alarm is going off? And after a while it starts to feel like someone is boring into your skull with a drill, and it causes actual physical pain? Imagine that happening, but imagine it going on for years. Imagine that you can’t escape from it, no matter where you go or how many pillows you pile over your head. That’s what it’s like living in a town with something as dark as Eichen House.”

“So should I feel sorry for you now?” Stiles asks. “You were in pain, so that makes you hurting me okay? Hurting all the other patients, too?”

“Believe it or not, the majority of what I did there was attempt to mitigate the damage,” Morrell says, “and it wasn’t easy. Fighting against that sort of darkness, when everyone else there had succumbed to it - ”

“Stop,” Stiles says. “Just stop. Stop painting yourself as the brave, suffering warrior against the forces of evil. I’m an inch away from kicking you in the crotch. You want to be honest with me, just tell me why you did what you did.”

Morrell regards him for a long minute. “I don’t have the Sight,” she says. “Not like you. I just get feelings. Intuition. And when you walked into my office, the instant I saw you, I knew that you were the one who could defeat Eichen House. I knew that just like you know that the sun is going to rise tomorrow morning. It was a fact. But if I interfered, it wouldn’t happen. I had to sit back and let things unfold.”

“Well, isn’t that just great,” Stiles says, disgusted. “So you used me in your fight against evil.”

“Are you saying the fight wasn’t worth it?” Morrell asks.

Stiles’ gaze strays up to Eichen House, and he thinks about the people who had been there for weeks or months, of the monsters - if they really were even monsters - in their cages. He has to admit that she has a point, but he’s sure as hell not about to admit that to her face. “But you couldn’t just tell me that that’s what I was fighting for.”

“No. You had to get there in your own way.” Morrell’s quiet for a minute. “I am sorry for your suffering, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says. “And maybe if you had just sat back and allowed me to suffer, I could forgive you. But you actively contributed, that first time I was in Eichen House. You helped them convince me I hadn’t seen what I saw.”

“It was the only way they were ever going to let you go home, Stiles,” Morrell says. “And if they had been allowed to keep you, they would have broken you. I was at least able to convince Dr. Samuels that we should send you home as soon as you had acknowledged your ‘delusions’, because keeping you there meant risk that you would rediscover the secret ward.”

Stiles had wondered about that, and it does make more sense now, but he still doesn’t say anything. “Great. Thanks. That’s swell.”

“I’m not asking your forgiveness, Stiles,” Morrell says. “I just want you to know why I did what I did. And as I’m sure you know from Peter Hale, people don’t always make the best decisions when they’re in pain.”

Stiles doesn’t reply to that either, but he does think about it, makes himself really stop and think about living with that buzzing darkness under his skin every day. Trying to fight it but always failing, only barely able to mitigate the damage that it was doing, only able to save a few while watching everyone else get dragged under. He thinks about what Peter had said about the agony of his wounds, how he would have done anything to make the pain stop. He had forgiven Peter for that easily, because he wasn’t the one who had been hurt. Maybe that was why Peter hadn’t gone after Morrell. Maybe he understands her better than Stiles does.

“Okay, well,” he finally says, “you’re still fired.”

At this, Morrell chuckles. “As it happens,” she says, “I’m closing my private practice.” When he looks at her in surprise, she says, “I’m going to lose my license, Stiles. Remember, the lawsuit? The ethics violations? I can’t exactly say I didn’t do what I did, and I can’t explain to a judge or to the board of medicine that I was acting to defeat a great evil. I knew at the time that what I did in Eichen House would eventually mean the end to my career.”

“Oh.” Stiles considers this. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’ll come up with something,” she says. “But I won’t go far. Beacon Hills isn’t the kind of place you leave. Even if you do, you’ll always eventually come back.”

For some reason, Stiles thinks of his mother. “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain?”

“It seems there’s a fine line between the two,” Morrell says. Her gaze goes back up to the silent building, hulking in the fog. “Maybe someday the evil there can be defeated. I don’t know. But it will come back, Stiles. It always does.”

“Well, when it does, I’ll be here,” Stiles says, and then sighs. “We’ll be here.”

Morrell gives him another smile. “I’ll be seeing you, Stiles,” she says, and turns and walks away.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles’ father is still at the job interview when he gets home from school, so he sits down with his homework and thinks about dinner. Peter has texted, saying he’s ‘taking care of some business’ which could literally mean anything, and that he’ll be by at some point but it might not be until late. Stiles doesn’t ask for details.

They eat dinner when Tom gets home, and he’s cautiously optimistic about the job interview, saying it went well. They’re taking care of the dishes afterwards when Tom’s phone chimes and he glances down at it. “Okay, I’m going out for a bit,” he says. “Melissa wants my help. Seems to have clogged her garbage disposal and doesn’t want to have to call a plumber.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles shoots out of his chair. “Are you kidding me?”

Tom frowns. “I’ll be back in a – ”

“No, seriously, you can’t just – go change your shirt! Clean up! For God’s sake, Dad! Don’t you know a booty call when you get one?”

“For God’s sake, Stiles – ”

“Dad, Melissa McCall has been a single mother for the past six years. Are you seriously telling me that you think she doesn’t know how to unclog a garbage disposal? And that she isn’t angling to watch your butt while you kneel on her kitchen floor? Get real! Go change shirts, you’ve got salsa on this one.”

Tom is frowning. “Do you actually think . . .”

“I don’t think, Dad, I _know_. Put on a clean T-shirt and a button down but then roll your sleeves up. Girls love that. Trust me, I heard that from Lydia, and she would know. And put on some cologne. But not a lot.” Stiles is practically bouncing in his seat. “Do you need condoms? I know where Scott keeps his, if you don’t have any – ”

“Please never tell me why you know that.” He clears his throat and adds, “But no, thank you, I’m fully capable of acquiring my own condoms, should I require them. I’ll just go and, uh, change shirts.”

Stiles chortles as his father leaves the room and he pulls out his phone to text Scott. ‘u home?’

‘no I’m at Allison’s, why?’

‘your mom just texted my dad for help unclogging her garbage disposal,’ Stiles texts back, smirking.

‘dude!’ Scott replies. ‘I did not need to know that!’

Stiles is still laughing as his father comes back into the room. “Okay, how do I look?”

“Super,” Stiles says. “I won’t wait up.”

Tom shakes his head a little but exits the house. Stiles whistles to himself while cleaning up the rest of the kitchen, and glances up when there’s a quiet knock on the door. He checks through the peephole, then lets Peter in. “Dude, I should really give you a key.”

“Let’s not step on your father’s feelings any more than we have to,” Peter says, smirking slightly, and leans in for a kiss. Stiles returns it, feeling a little weak in the knees as Peter thoroughly explores his mouth. A few minutes or an eternity later, they wind up on Stiles’ bed, just kissing, simple and easy and almost chaste. Stiles lets Peter breathe against him, loving the way Peter’s body feels against his. He feels like he could do that forever. Then Peter pulls away momentarily. “Where is your father, by the way? Is he going to come in here and start removing things I find valuable?”

“Nah, he’s over at the McCalls’,” Stiles says. “Gettin’ lucky.”

“I envy him,” Peter says. “Melissa McCall is a very attractive woman.”

“Oh, I’m not enough for you?” Stiles asks, and fake sulks.

Peter arches an eyebrow at him and asks, “When is your eighteenth birthday again?”

Stiles has to swallow before he can answer. “Still three months to go. You’re actually going to make me wait, huh?”

“Well, seeing as I’m not going to be able to meet any of your father’s other criteria, like being your age or refraining from murdering people, I figure I should at least honor his wishes that I wait until you’re legal,” Peter replies.

“Who have you been murdering lately?” Stiles asks.

With a satisfied smile, Peter says, “I found Brunski.”

“Ohhh,” Stiles says. He feels an involuntary shudder go through him, remembering what he had gone through at Eichen House. He pushes it back and then says, “How’d that work out for him?”

“Poorly,” Peter says. “I think even your father would be willing to cut me some slack for this one. You know, I’m fairly sure that Brunski was actually a serial killer, from a few things he said. Trying to ‘relate’ to me, as if that would get me to let him live. All things considered, you might have gotten off light.”

Stiles gives another shudder. “Given what he looked like in, you know, the hallu – the visions I had – I’m not actually surprised.”

“Mm.” Peter leans in and kisses him on the temple. “Don’t worry. He’s quite dead now, and trust me, his body won’t be found any time soon.”

Stiles nods and relaxes a little. “So if you killed Dr. Samuels and the aide, why does my dad think they flew the coop?”

Peter’s eyebrows go up again, but he says readily, “Most likely because I broke into their houses, packed suitcases for them, and then drove their cars out of town. Don’t worry, everything’s been properly disposed of. I am, after all, very good at what I do.”

“I bet,” Stiles says, and adds thoughtfully, “Someday when I’m a cop, I’m going to be amazing at it, because I’ll be married to a criminal and you’ll be able to tell me all their tricks.”

“Married, hm?” Peter asks, amused. “I feel like you’re skipping a few steps. I should take you out on an actual date first.”

“Yeah, Lydia wants to meet you, in circumstances that don’t involve an empty lacrosse field and her ending the evening in the hospital,” Stiles tells him. “We should do something classy, like a museum or a concert or something.”

“I’m not nearly as sophisticated as you seem to think,” Peter says. “I find museums quite boring and classical music puts me to sleep. I might not be seventeen, but I’d be just as happy with a movie with loud explosions and somewhere that we can grab a burger afterwards.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stiles says. “But seriously, after the whole soulmate thing, ‘married’ doesn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Fair enough.” Peter leans in and nuzzles at his neck. “You don’t seem to have a problem with my murderous ways.”

Stiles is quiet for a minute. “I love my dad,” he says. “But I’m not like him, I don’t think. Maybe that’s because of all the shit I went through, or maybe it’s just because he’s him and I’m me. You don’t kill people who don’t deserve it . . . except your niece, but I guess I can write that off to you being crazy. You killed them because they hurt me. I know you’d never kill anyone I care about, because that would hurt me. So . . . if anything, you being willing to do that makes me feel safe.” He huffs out a sigh. “I probably need a lot more therapy.”

Peter chuckles quietly and kisses him again. “Perhaps,” he says, “but it makes perfect sense to me.”

“That’s not necessarily a good thing,” Stiles says, but laughs anyway. “You saved my life, you know.”

“Of course I know that,” Peter says. “But I was just repaying the favor, as promised. I don’t know how much longer I would have lasted in Eichen House. There’s a part of me that wants to say they couldn’t have broken me . . . but I’m smart enough to know better.”

Stiles gives a little shrug. “I don’t think anyone’s unbreakable,” he says.

“Mm. Most likely not.” Peter leans in for another kiss. “At least, not on their own. Maybe the two of us together can claim that.”

“That’s kind of sappy, isn’t it?” Stiles asks, grinning at him.

“I’m allowed a little sentimentality now and then, I think,” Peter says, and nuzzles at his ear. “Do you want to go watch a movie?”

Stiles sighs, content, and nestles closer. “Maybe in a little while,” he says, and closes his eyes, reveling in the way Peter feels against him: warm, solid, _real_.

 

~fin~


End file.
